


Holiday in Handcuffs

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Coulson family fun, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Christmas, M/M, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, home for the holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Phil hadn't planned on falling for junior agent Clint Barton.To be fair, he hadn't planned on kidnapping him along to the Coulson family Christmas either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, there is one, single Hallmark Christmas movie that I, BeneficialAddiction, am willing and able to sit down and watch - 2007's 'Holiday in Handcuffs' starring Melissa Joan Hart and Mario Lopez.
> 
> Turns out it makes a great Clint/Coulson holiday fic.
> 
> Who would've guessed?

To his credit, Phil doesn’t know that it’s going to happen until it does. 

He doesn’t plan it, doesn’t _intend_ to blackmail a junior agent into coming home with him for Christmas, he just... panics. 

It’s Beth’s fault really, when you think about it. If she weren’t so perfectly domestic, with her husband and her two-point-five children and her dog, Phil wouldn’t look so pathetically alone by comparison. If she weren’t so good at the whole holiday thing, helping their mother turn a one or two-night Christmas celebration into a week-long event, he probably could’ve just sent his sincere apologies and skipped out. Unfortunately for him, Beth’s always been an over-achiever and far too nosey for her own good. 

Well, for _his_ own good really. 

She actually sends out embossed invitations, the whole family included, and the subtle threats that come by phone a week later aren’t actually that subtle at all. 

Nothing for it then – he has to go, and not even his longstanding friendship with one Nicholas R Fury will save him. 

It would be better if he truly were distanced from his family, if he didn’t care all that much about what they thought or what disappointed them. Working for SHIELD should have done it years ago – all the secrecy and missed calls and endless holidays away – but somehow the Coulsons have always managed to keep him close. He Skypes with his parents, writes letters back and forth to his younger brother RJ, and Beth’s never been shy about crashing in on him with her entire brood whenever she possibly can. He’s the squeaky wheel in an otherwise normal family, the problem-child in the otherwise tightly knit group, and while they’ve always been loving and supportive of everything he does, the guilt still sits heavily on his shoulders. 

You see, his family doesn’t know exactly what it is that he does for a living, not the full extent of it anyway. They don’t know the danger he puts himself in, the frequency with which he’s sent out of the country at a moment’s notice. There’s only so much he can he possibly tell them, only so many stories he can weave, and as each holiday season passes, it becomes more and more difficult to come up with a reason for his absence. Now, his mother has gotten it into her head that the _real_ reason he hasn’t been home for Christmas in years is not that he’s a very important secret agent within a shadowy government organization, but rather that he’s got a partner he doesn’t want to share with them, and she’s somehow managed to drag everyone else into the delusion with her. 

It’s a ridiculous notion. Phil’s always been discrete about his personal affairs, but he’s never considered himself to be in the closet, never made an effort to hide the fact that he was gay. That he would avoid his family at Christmas just to hide a boyfriend from them is somehow both better and worse than the truth that his job is simply more demanding, more important sometimes than they are. He might even have appreciated the ready-made excuse if his mother hadn’t staged a teary intervention with his father and both siblings, promising him that they loved him no matter what and that they would never, ever think less of him for who he loved in return. 

Phil had sat through the conference call with exasperated fondness and done something truly, monumentally stupid in an effort to reassure his mother that he knew her better than that, that he had never feared the loss of her love. 

Now he’s barreling in to clean up a milk run that’s spilled over with less than sixteen hours to spare before he and his non-existent but still-promised partner are due at the family lodge for the start of Beth’s Christmas festivities. 

He’s doomed. 

He could put it down to stress, he supposes. 

Unfortunately, the thought _has_ been lingering at the back of his mind that the only way he’s going to pull this off is to hire an escort or promise to fast-track one of the junior agents through Undercover 103, so he can’t claim complete innocence. 

The only problem, he muses as he leads an extraction team into a shoddy little underground bunker, is that he would rather chew off his own arm than do either. He doesn’t know any of the junior agents, doesn’t trust them, and while he could probably bribe his good friend Jasper Sitwell into playing the part, he knows he would never hear the end of it. 

Doomed then, and resigned to disappointing his mother once more, until he kicks in the door of the basement where a SHIELD tracker has been steadily blinking out a silent alert and is struck dumb by the sight of his salvation sitting half-naked and completely high, cuffed to a chair and warbling Jingle Bells like he can negotiate his own release just by being an obnoxious pain in the ass. 

“Barton!” he says sharply, a warning both to the agent and himself. “Sitrep!” 

“Oh heeeeyyyy, sir,” Barton snickers, having finally realized just who’s broken down the door and cut himself off mid-verse. “You came to get me!” 

Phil blinks, his stomach doing a low, sick roll. 

He hasn’t worked with Barton all that much since he’d recruited the young man two years ago, but he’s kept close tabs on his progress. The archer burned his way through the junior ranks with incredible speed, setting some records along the way, but not all of them have been good. He’s been through more handlers than any other agent in the history of the organization, has more red flags for insubordination in his file than Phil has ever seen, and is notorious for pulling stupid, risky stunts to get himself out of trouble whenever he inevitably falls into it. Half his evaluations call him cocky and over-confident, but that, that one sentence and the pure, honest surprise behind it is enough to convince Phil that it’s exactly the opposite. 

He’s not over-confident; he’s scared. 

He believes he’s worth so little to SHIELD that he doesn’t trust them to send someone after him. 

It’s an understandable assumption, though rather unforgiveable. Barton had fucked up but good when he’d disappeared off one of Maria Hill’s ops a few months ago and come back with the Black Widow in tow. She’s still on lockdown back at HQ, and while Barton had been let off base for this particular milk run, he’s being watched like the proverbial hawk in the meantime. Fury had been making noise about leashing them together on a two-man Strike Team so that when it all goes bad Barton will bear the brunt of the fallout, but he’s yet to find a handler willing to take them on and the whole thing is still a long way from getting off the ground. Romanov will have to prove herself first and Barton’s still being punished, made to sit through the gamut of intro classes he’d been allowed to skip or test out of in the beginning: Vehicle Maintenance, Morse and Other Codes, Beginner’s Undercover... 

_Shit._

He thinks the thought before he can stop himself and once it’s there in the back of his mind there’s no pretending it never happened. Phil’s all about efficiency and this solution kills a few birds with one stone, so it’s hard to argue the logic of. 

Still, he shakes his head, angry with himself that he’s even entertaining the idea when Barton’s been compromised and is clearly vulnerable, beaming at him from his chair wearing nothing but a pair of dark purple boxer-briefs that definitely aren’t SHIELD-issue. 

“Come on,” he sighs, stepping forward to help Barton to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.” 

“Can’t,” Barton mumbles, a bit sadly as he hangs his head, lower lip trembling and slightly swollen. 

“Are you injured?” he asks, immediately on the alert. 

“Nuh-uh. But they stuck me with somethin’ an’ I can’t...” 

Barton frowns, wriggles, shifts his massive shoulders, then looks up at Phil with a huff and a huge pair of puppy-dog eyes that suggest he should know what’s wrong. 

Rolling his eyes, Phil circles around behind him and has to bite down hard on his tongue to stop himself from barking a laugh. The bindings that have thwarted Barton’s efforts are a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs obviously meant for... _other_ activities, and have somehow resisted his normally adept lock-picking skills. There’s a bent bobby pin lodged in the keyhole, and it would all be rather unforgivably hilarious if Barton weren’t six sheets to the wind on whatever they’d shot him up with. 

To make the picture that much worse, Barton’s arms aren’t threaded through the back of the chair, he’s just sat down on it. 

“Up,” Phil commands, tugging gently on his elbow, and Clint rises to his feet gracefully and obediently, only to turn around and blink at the chair with wide-eyed astonishment. 

“Cool!” he whines in a high-pitched voice, “How’d you do that Sir?” 

“I’ll tell you later,” Phil says insincerely, already dragging him toward the door as a dull boom echoes somewhere nearby. “Come on, we’ve overstayed our welcome.” 

He should take the handcuffs off. 

It’s probably the professional thing to do, especially once they’re all safely on the quinjet and heading back to New York. Phil’s read Barton’s file though, and he knows exactly what the man is capable of, even when drugged. His penchant for escaping medical like some kind of long-incarcerated conman is legend, and with the way he’s acting he needs to be seen before he’s allowed to do anything else. 

“Didn’t know you were so kinky Sir,” Barton snickers when Phil releases one of his hands from its cuff and clips it to his own instead. 

“I learn from others’ mistakes Agent Barton,” he replies flatly, sitting down beside the archer and pulling out his tablet to start work on his AAR. “You won’t be disappearing on me before you’re seen by medical the way you did with Agent Hand.” 

Barton doesn’t reply, just sticks out his lower lip in another pout and huffs once more before slouching down in the seat next to Phil and closing his eyes, his hand resting on Phil’s thigh to give him room to move. Someone’s found him a spare pair of sweats to tug on, but Phil hadn’t thought to get him a shirt while he was loose, so he’s just going to have to suffer through the endless muscles and the burning heat of the archer’s body pressed all down his side until they land. He feels like a lech for being aware of the younger man’s nakedness at all, but he dares anyone to be confronted with a half-naked Clint Barton and not have some kind of reaction. 

Lord, he’s a terrible person. 

Sighing, he pages through the blank documents loaded onto his tablet and pulls up the paperwork he’ll need to file to transfer Barton from Gorby’s supervision to his own.

**AVAVA**

Clint wakes up slow with the kind of rolling headache that warns him he’s been recently drugged. His body is achy and his tongue is all dried out and stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his stomach is rumbling like he hasn’t eaten in days. Breathing slowly, he takes quiet stock of himself and the room around him, and quickly realizes that while he’s not on that stupid chair anymore, he’s definitely still handcuffed to something. Maybe if he...

“...Never seen him react so poorly to being drugged before,” a low voice says, one that Clint would recognize anywhere, even if he doesn’t get to hear it all that often. 

“Agent Barton has a documented reaction to Benadryl,” another voice says – female, calm... he knows her too. “It was mixed in with the cocktail they gave him – luckily the side effects of that are the worst he should experience.” 

“Aren’t those bad enough?” Clint rasps, blinking his eyes open to the bright white world that is SHEILD’s med bay. “What'd I do this time doc?” 

“Well, you couldn’t quite pull off your _own_ daring escape,” Helen Cho says, coming forward with a smile on her face and a clipboard in her hand, gesturing to the - fuzzy, pink, what the hell? - handcuff keeping Clint clipped to the bed rail. “But Agent Coulson assures me that the worst of the humiliation was just a bit of Christmas caroling.” 

Clint groans, sinking back into the pillows and flopping his free arm across his eyes. 

“At least I kept my clothes on this time, right?” he whimpers, trying and failing to console himself that he hadn’t acted like a total idiot in front of... 

“Not all of them,” Coulson says quietly, and Clint’s heart thumps extra hard, but it almost sounds like the guy is smiling so it can’t be that bad right? 

Sneaking a peak from beneath his elbow, he’s disappointed to find the senior agent straight-faced and utterly ignoring him, scrawling away at his tablet with a little black stylus. Sighing, resigned to his fate, he relinquishes his free arm to the doctor, who quickly checks his blood pressure, looks over his vitals, and shines a little hell-light into his eyeballs before handing him a Styrofoam cup of cool water. 

“How do you feel?” she asks, pressing down on Clint’s fingernails to check his circulation. 

“Hungover,” he grumbles bitterly around the bendy-straw. “Same as last time.” 

“Plenty of fluids,” she councils, wagging her pen at him sternly, and Clint toasts her with the cup. “I’d prescribe some rest too if I thought you’d listen.” 

Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, she comes up with one of the peppermint lollipops she has R&D whip up for patients with queasy stomachs and hands it over. 

“Aw, you’re the best doc,” Clint praises, all boyish smirk and wheedling tone as he takes the sucker and rattles his cuff at her. “Any chance you’d sweeten the deal even more?” 

“Ask your handler,” she replies with a smirk of her own, and then she’s turning her back on his stunned expression and waltzing out the door. 

Clint blinks a few times, sure he heard wrong, because last he knew, he didn’t have a handler here at SHIELD. A handler was something you earned, a senior agent who _picked you_ out of the pools, and no one had ever wanted Clint. 

He’s used to that - drop-out orphan carney hick ya’ know - so he’d never let himself hope that one Phillip J Coulson, Level 6 Agent of SHIELD and all-around BAMF would look at him twice after bringing him in. 

Clint feels his cheeks heat with a painful blush and ducks his head, focuses on unwrapping his candy. 

The guy had left a mark ok, more than just the one from the bullet. 

“Sign this.” 

Clint looks up, startled that Coulson’s managed to get out of his chair, cross to the bed, and step right up beside him without his noticing. Course, that kind of competency is half of what gave Clint the hots for the guy in the first place, and he’d kinda been ignoring him on purpose... 

“What is it?” he asks warily, jamming his sucker into the pocket of his cheek before he can say anything else, like one of the twelve horrendously embarrassing thoughts running through his head. 

“Transfer of supervision,” Coulson replies easily, handing the tablet and stylus into Clint’s free hand. “You and Romanov are _both_ going to need a handler to keep you out of trouble once Fury pairs you up.” 

“You...” 

Coulson finally looks at him with those kind blue eyes Clint remembers so well and quirks an eyebrow. 

“Unless you’d rather someone else,” he says carefully, no emotion leaking through at all. 

“Wouldn’t _you_ rather someone else?” Clint practically yips, stunned that Coulson would be willing to take on him let alone him and the Black Widow. “Have you _read_ my file?” 

“Quite thoroughly Agent Barton,” he says calmly, looking Clint dead in the eye. “You’ve done almost as well as I’d hoped. With the right handler, you have the potential to do even better.” 

Clint’s jaw drops, but Coulson’s turned to go back to his chair, sitting down and crossing one ankle neatly over his knee, the picture of ease and surety. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or to let a moment of insanity pass when he could take all advantage of it, he quickly scrawls his name across the screen and then taps through the document, adding his signature to all the dotted lines without reading a damn word. 

“It will be a pleasure working with you Sir,” he quips, tossing Coulson the tablet and a sharkish grin, more to cover the racing of his heart than anything. 

“Yes, I expect it will be quite interesting,” Coulson replies, looking him over slowly with an intense gaze. 

Clint tries not to squirm, unsure what that means, and lifts his chin in challenge. 

Coulson blinks, shakes his head as if brushing away a thought, then presses a button that causes the tablet to make a _swooshing_ sound and send the paperwork off into whatever ether it exists. 

“So, what’s the plan Boss?” Clint asks, subtlety toying with the handcuff. “Where to next?” 

_“You_ are going to stay here,” Coulson replies with a frown, setting the tablet aside and pulling out a cell phone. “You need to be monitored, and I have to... go.” 

“No fair,” Clint immediately protests, Coulson’s reputation as a hard-ass and a robot suddenly resurfacing with a vengeance. “Why do _you_ get to leave?” 

“Because I wasn’t recently drugged with an unknown cocktail of chemicals containing something I have particularly bad reactions to,” he explains. 

“That wasn’t my fault,” Clint huffs petulantly. “Didn’t work anyway – I didn’t tell ‘em anything.” 

“I know that Barton,” Coulson says, everything about him suddenly going soft, and Clint’s heart thumps in his chest. 

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles, licking his lips nervously. “You could at least take the handcuff off. Or stay and suffer with me – med food sucks.” 

“The handcuff stays until you can pick it,” Coulson scolds, something like amusement dancing around the corners of his mouth. “I’m a big believer in learning through experience.” 

Clint scowls at him – it's not funny; stupid, fuzzy, sex cuffs! 

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a bobby pin handy,” he snarks, and Coulson rolls his eyes. 

“I seem to have left them all in my other wig,” he says dryly, and Clint tilts his head, surprised by the joke, as lame as it was. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, wriggling around to get himself into a position where he can lean over to swipe the stylus off the bedside table. Coulson’s conveniently dropped it just a little too far out of reach, but he can recognize a challenge when he sees one. “Anyway, doesn’t explain why you get to leave and I have to stay. You’re my handler now – isn't that what you’re supposed to do? _Handle_ me?” 

Coulson arches an eyebrow and Clint blushes, chastised by that single, silent expression. 

“Supervise me,” he amends, mumbling and embarrassed. 

_Jesus Barton, scare the guy off why don’t ya?_

_That's gotta be a record; losing your first handler to sexual harassment within what? Two minutes?_

Normally he wouldn’t care – he’s tested his supervisors in the past with nearly that exact sentence. It’s important to him to be able to trust the voice in his ear, to know that he won’t be asked to put out or go to his knees for a mark or for a meal. But he needs a handler right now, him and Nat both, and he knows the kind of hot water he’s in with the organization as a whole. He’s lucky anyone is willing to take him on, let alone... 

“Normally I would. 

Clint blinks, stops maneuvering toward the stylus on the table because he’s nearly forgotten what he’d asked in the first place. 

“I have rules and expectations for my assets Agent Barton,” Coulson says slowly, with a heaviness and an aggressive eye contact that tells him exactly how serious this is. “But I hold myself to those same standards. You will never wake up in medical alone if it is in my power to be there, or to send one of your teammates. And Barton...” 

Clint swallows hard, forces himself not to drop his gaze, even as his instincts suddenly start screaming at him to run. 

“I will always come for you.” 

It’s as intense and honest and heartfelt a statement as Clint thinks he’s ever been given before. His heart starts pounding in his chest, he can’t breathe, and for all of a minute it feels like his whole, crappy history is written all over his face. Clearing his throat, he lets himself drop his eyes back to the table, his fingertips inches away from the stylus, the little piece of metal that, with a snap and a twist, will be his literal key to getting out of this handcuff and out of this conversation. 

“But not this time,” he says, because he has to say something as he tries to reel everything back in where it’s safe and hidden, a jerkish sort of comment to break the crazy tension hanging between them. “Not a great first impression, taking off as soon as you sign me on. I’m starting to see a pattern there Coulson.” 

The man makes a noncommittal sound and Clint’s heart sinks, both because of the sick, I-told-you-so triumph bubbling up in the pit of his stomach and because, despite being right, he kind of feels like a dick for pointing it out. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, trying to save face by pretending to misinterpret Coulson’s little hum. “I suck at first impressions too.” 

“To be fair,” Coulson says calmly, “You were drugged this time. And bleeding the last.” 

“Who’s fault was that?” 

“I told you to stop or I’d shoot,” Coulson says, getting smoothly to his feet and scooping up his tablet, along with the stylus Clint’s been struggling toward. 

“Hey!” he yelps, dismayed. 

"I hope you’ll truly learn to trust me one day Agent Barton,” Coulson says thoughtfully, tucking the stylus into his pocket as though Clint isn’t glaring at him and trying to burn a hole through his suit with the power of his gaze alone. “I’m a man who proves that I always mean the things I say.” 

“I don’t even know you,” Clint argues, because something inside him twists at the idea, wants so badly it hurts. “You shot me the day we met, and now you’re leaving me tied to a bed with kinky sex cuffs while you disappear to do who-knows-what...” 

“I have to go home for Christmas,” he says, sharply and suddenly but not with anger. 

Clint blinks, stares, and if he didn’t trust his eyes more than anything in the world, he’d think he was imagining the pink blush that dusts across Senior Agent Coulson’s cheeks for all of a second. 

“I _would_ stay with you,” he says, and it’s insistent in a way that Clint doesn’t understand, makes him uncomfortable. “But I have to go home for the holiday, and with the Director _and_ my sister both conspiring against me there’s no way I can get out of it.” 

“The Director...” Clint mumbles, because ok, now he’s confused. 

Coulson just waves his hand dismissively, like that isn’t the most interesting thing Clint’s heard all week. 

“The point is, you need someone to check in on you, at least for the next twenty-four hours,” he says. “And since I can’t be here to do it, I’d much prefer that you stay in medical so that Dr. Cho can.” 

“Obviously you need to take another look at my file Coulson,” Clint says, licking his lips nervously before he starts looking around for an alternative lockpick. “I don’t stay in medical.” 

“I’m aware,” Coulson says, and the frown is so obvious in his tone that Clint actually snaps around to see it on the guy’s face. 

Coulson is standing beside his bed in near parade rest, shoulders pinned back like his spine has gone to steel, his fingers tapping at the edges of his tablet in a strange and (probably) intentional display of nerves. 

“That sounds like a third option,” Clint says slowly, curious but wary. “But I gotta say this whole hesitant-silence thing is kinda freaking me out.” 

Sighing, Coulson screws up his mouth, looks for all of a minute like he’s not going to speak before he finally spits it out. 

“I’ve got a proposition for you.” 

Clint’s heart stops in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This monster is currently running a lot longer than planned, but I have several chapters complete and hope to have them all out on a regular schedule before Christmas. Reviews make excellent holiday gifts ;)


	2. Chapter 2

“Umm, maybe not the best word, since, you know, I’m _cuffed to a bed_ right now,” Clint says slowly, more to buy himself some time than anything as his thoughts start crashing around inside his skull, all stupid panic and familiar flight-response. 

“A proposal then,” Coulson offers with a shrug, and Clint shakes his head. 

“Not sure that’s better...” 

Coulson pauses, tilts his head just a little as he looks Clint up and down, and aw, boss, no, don’t do that... 

“Barton?” 

“Nah, nothing,” he mumbles, crunching down on the last of his sucker to fight the nausea rolling up his throat from the pit of his stomach. 

His fingers start dancing along the bed railing, twirling the soggy lollipop stick, and he can feel the weight of Coulson’s eyes on him like bags of sand hanging around his neck. His chest starts heaving as his breath comes short, and he doesn’t realize that he’s truly starting to panic until Coulson’s voice sounds firmly in his ear. 

“Talk to me Barton.” 

Shit. 

It’s not like he’s never been asked for a sitrep before ok? He has, and he knows when and how to give them, but Coulson, he... he sounds like he actually cares what’s going on with _Clint,_ not just the situation, and that’s... 

That's something he’s not sure he’s ever had before, not even with SHIELD. 

He can find you any number of people who will say that they wish Level II Agent of SHIELD Clint ‘Hawkeye’ Barton would just shut the hell up, but he’s not sure he could find you a single one that would actually ask him to speak up. 

“I just... what kind of proposal?” he asks, his nervousness painfully obvious in his voice. 

Coulson looks at him with a frown, watching his reactions, and Clint purposefully takes a deep breath, settles himself. 

“Nothing like I think you’re thinking,” he says slowly, and with enough concern to make Clint wish once more that he were loose and free to climb into the vents and disappear. “Barton, if you’ve had problems with another agent...” 

“No,” Clint replies immediately, shaking his head. “Not here, not... not with SHIELD. I just... bad memories, you know?” 

Coulson doesn’t respond, just gives him a minute of silence to let the statement stand, and that’s probably the best response Clint could’ve asked for in that moment. 

“It was silly anyway,” he says a moment later, an abrupt change of subject, and Clint narrows his eyes, wondering if the man is pitching his voice to sound vulnerable on purpose. “But it would have all been above-board. On the books, and you could have said no, of course. That’s why I filed the supervision paperwork first. Your decision wouldn’t have changed that.” 

Clint stares as his world tips a little, stutters, then picks up spinning again. 

He... shit, he _had_ done that hadn’t he? 

Why was that? Just to give Clint an out, to give him reassurance? 

Coulson doesn’t know his real history, doesn’t know all the crap that triggers him, makes him nervous. 

_How..._

He tilts his head. 

“You’re still on sanction,” Coulson explains in response. “You have classes you need to pass before Fury will let you back out on a real mission.” 

“What, this didn’t count?” Clint snorts, embarrassed by the state he’d ended up in on a simple milk-run. 

He’s still wearing the handcuffs after all. 

“That was a part of your punishment,” Coulson responds dryly. “The Director loves sticking people on assignments they’re overqualified for. Teaches them humility.” 

“Devious,” Clint muses, biting his tongue to keep himself from pointing out that it hadn’t exactly happened that way, and Coulson nods. 

“My point,” he continued, “Is that you still need to pass your Beginner’s Undercover course.” 

“Ugh, _need_ is such a strong word,” Clint groans, flopping back onto the pillow and dropping his arm over his eyes again, more for cover than anything. “What the hell kind of undercover were you gonna try to stick me with? I don’t make a very good Santa Claus Coulson, unless it’s Mr. December, and no offense, but those calendars kinda creep me out.” 

“I’ll be sure to let Agent Sitwell know,” Coulson says lightly, and Clint absolutely does not let the sound of a smile in the man’s voice get to him. “He’s already been put in charge of the holiday fundraisers for next year – he had such high hopes...” 

Clint snorts a laugh – he can’t help it. 

His jokes might be dry and kinda lame, delivered in deadpan straight-face, but somehow Coulson makes it work. 

“Fine, ok, I’m listening,” Clint says, sitting himself back up and biting back a grin. 

“I need to go home for Christmas,” Coulson says slowly, and Clint can practically see the bullet points hanging over his head. “You need someone to keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours, and prefer that to happen outside of medical.” 

Clint nods in agreement. 

Coulson pauses, his lips doing that little sideways quirk that’s not quite a frown. 

“You need credit for your undercover course,” he says slowly, “And I...” 

“What?” Clint presses, after a moment of silence, and to his stunned surprise, Coulson actually blushes. 

“I haven’t made it home for a holiday in a long time,” he says, and it comes out in a way that feels like he’s defending himself, explaining himself. “My parents... well, my _mother_ thinks it’s because I’m hiding a... partner from her.” 

“Partner,” Clint says slowly, as understanding (and a strange, hot excitement) flashes through him. 

“Is that a problem Agent Barton?” Coulson asks coldly, and Clint startles in the bed, realizes how that sounded. 

“What, no!” he yelps. “I mean, ask anybody, I'm all for equal-opportunity dating, I just didn’t think...” 

There’s a weird look in Coulson’s eyes that he can’t read so Clint shuts up quick, his teeth clicking shut. They both sit there in silence for a minute, and while he obviously can’t speak for anyone else, he knows _he_ at least is fighting down a blush with everything he has. 

“Anyway...” he mumbles. 

“Yes,” Coulson says, suddenly clipped and professional again. “Of course, it’s not required, and obviously you’re uncomfortable. I meant what I said; it’s well within your rights to decline. I don’t coerce my assets, and I certainly don't want anything sexual from you.” 

He keeps talking, but Clint’s kinda tuned him out. 

Wow, that... that had hurt more than it should’ve... 

_Jeez Barton, three seconds ago you were freaking out that he was gonna force you into something in exchange for being your handler – now you’re upset that he’s not interested?!_

The crash of confused emotion aches in his chest and he determinedly forces it away – it's stupid no matter how you slice it. He needs a boss, not a boyfriend, and he shouldn’t be letting his emotions get tangled up in this. Problem is, when he falls he always falls fast, and he’d started losing his balance the moment Coulson put a nine-millimeter slug in his thigh at a dead run across a Turkish rooftop two years ago. 

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Nat’s tells him to focus, to get his head in the game. Just because he’s suddenly got Coulson back in his life again is no reason to get sloppy. This may or may not be a test, but the wrong answer could be a disaster either way. 

“...but really, I _did_ say ‘partner’ on the phone,” Coulson muses, obviously winding down just as Clint tunes back in. “I suppose I could always just introduce you as _you._ As my asset. Though that might reveal a little more about my work than I’m willing to push. If you _are_ interested, of course.” 

“Wait, your parents don’t know you’re a spy?” Clint asks, shocked. 

Coulson huffs self-deprecatingly, offers him a smirk. 

“Lie by omission, I suppose,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve told them, but they don’t believe me and I try not to go into details. I hardly need my mother worrying more than she already does. They believe I’m some kind of government accountant, a financial investigator I think.” 

“What, seriously?” 

“Look at me Barton,” Coulson drolls with a sardonic expression. “Do I look like a spy?” 

“Um, _yeah!”_

What with the slick suits and the hidden muscle and the way he moves... 

Coulson’s mouth quirks. 

“Suppose I shouldn’t have asked that question of a man whose callsign is Hawkeye.” 

Clint shakes his head. 

A beat of silence passes, and he realizes that Coulson’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t... 

“So, um... I mean, what does this all... entail?” 

“Just as I’ve said,” Coulson replies. “A week home for the holidays with my parents and a bit of extended family. If you truly are willing and want the credit for your class, while also earning a hefty favor from me, then we’ll go together with you posing undercover as my long-time partner. I’ve never brought one home before, so my family won’t have many expectations, and you can play however you’re most comfortable.” 

“Expectations,” Clint says slowly, cold and flat as his heart sinks. 

It’s Coulson’s turn to tilt his head and frown, to look at Clint like he can see all the way to the heart of him. 

“I only meant that they won’t be able to judge our relationship against any others I’ve had,” he explains. “They won’t be able to call our behavior out of character, so you’ll be able to interact with me in whatever way you feel safest.” 

“I’m not _scared_ of you Coulson,” Clint scoffs, trying not to fall a little bit more in love right there in his hospital bed. “No matter what the other juniors say about you.” 

Coulson snorts, rolls his eyes. 

“Lab creation, or alien this year?” he asks, fishing his keys from his pocket and coming up with a tiny handcuff key. 

“LMD, actually,” Clint says, watching as he steps closer and takes hold of the cuff attached the bed rail. 

“Is that a yes or a no?” Coulson asks, wagging the key at him. “I can come back in twenty if you’d like a few minutes to think about it.” 

“Now, see, _this_ kinda feels like coercion,” Clint replies, just to tease. 

“Not hardly. It would take you, what, two hours max to figure out how to get out of these now that the drug has started to wear off?” 

“I’d get bored and dislocate my thumb before that long,” he mumbles distractedly, chewing his lip. “Yeah ok. I’ll do it.” 

If he wasn’t still the tiniest bit groggy from the Benadryl, he’d think he’d seen Coulson’s shoulders slump with relief. 

“Thank you, Barton,” he says, unclipping the cuff from the railing. “Seriously, start thinking of that favor.” 

“It’s not that big a deal boss,” Clint shrugs uncomfortably as he swings his legs out of the bed and stands up, testing his balance. “It would be cool if you let me use the bow sometimes though.” 

Coulson freezes beside him and when Clint looks up, he’s got the most adorable crinkle between his eyebrows, one that Clint just wants to kiss away. They’re too close together – enough that it's a serious temptation – so he tries to take a step back, but Coulson’s hanging on to the other handcuff. 

“Barton you don’t have to _ask_ for that,” he says with confusion. “What...” 

“Nobody’s ever let me use it before,” Clint says slowly, because does he really not know? “I ask, but they always say no. That a bow’s a liability, and there’s no way I can be better with it, and I tried...” 

He trails off, because something cold has come across Coulson’s face, hardening his jaw. 

“I can’t speak for the others,” he rumbles, and that coolness is sharp and strong in his voice too. “But you will _never_ have to ask for that from me Clint. I’ve seen you shoot, I know what you can do.” 

Clint stares, his heart hammering in his chest, not only because Coulson had called him by his name. 

“You... you’ve seen me shoot? But they don’t even _have_ any bows here.” 

Coulson frowns, shakes his head. 

“When we get back,” he says, and well, who the hell knows what that means but Clint doesn’t want to push his luck. 

He’s been trying subtly to tug the cuff out of Coulson’s grip, so that he can get a little bit of breathing room, but to his dismay the man notices right off and casts him a wry look before snapping the cuff closed around his own wrist. 

“Let’s go.”

**AVAVA**

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Barton grumps, tugging uselessly at the stupid, pink handcuff keeping him tethered to the support bar of one of SHIELD’s black SUV’s.

“Think of it as a learning experience,” Phil replies, unable to keep the smirk off his face. 

He’d felt bad waltzing Barton through the halls of Headquarters with the cuff still on his wrist, but here in the privacy of the car, he can let himself be amused. 

Barton grumbles and mutters under his breath, subtly searching the car around him for something that he can pick the lock with for about the hundredth time. Phil just shakes his head, flips on his blinker and exits the highway. They’ve been driving for about four hours and have three more hours of driving ahead of them, but it’s well past lunch and he’s getting hungry. The SUV – which he’d checked out of the motor pool after a spotless detailing, much to Barton’s dismay – needs a top off as well, so he turns left onto a familiar street and pulls in to a tiny, family-run convenience store. 

“You want anything?” Phil asks, already climbing out of the car, but Barton ignores him, bent double in a pointless effort to check under the seat for bobby pins or loose change. Rolling his eyes, he shuts the door and pulls out his SHIELD expense card, gets the premium leaded flowing. 

He’s rolled his window down, so he can still hear Barton cursing his predicament. As funny as fuzzy pink sex cuffs had been to start with, the joke is probably starting to run short. He knows that on a live op the archer would have already given in to the inevitable and dislocated his thumb to extract himself, but he doesn’t want Clint to think that that’s what he’s aiming for here, that that’s what he wants. 

Shutting off the gas, he leans back in through the window. 

“There’s a handgun in the glove box,” he says casually, “But try not to get into any trouble while I’m gone, hmm?” 

He doesn’t bother waiting to see if Clint gets the hint. It wasn’t a reminder about the firearm – that would be more than a little bit overkill – rather, merely a reminder to check there. Barton had thoroughly searched the floor, seats, dash, and cupholders upon finding himself locked in to the passengers’ side, but had somehow forgotten the most obvious place to find pens, wire, and other bits of SHIELD detritus. 

He’ll forgive it, he thinks, as he heads into the store; this is clearly a different sort of circumstance, more controlled, less dire. 

He wouldn’t blame Barton for being a bit frazzled in this instance. 

Still, if he hasn’t gotten himself free by the time Phil gets back to the car, he will be more than a little disappointed. 

Ignoring the implications that makes about him and the things he may or may not feel, he makes a quick circuit around the store, gathering up an armful of snacks and pulling drinks from the cooler before heading to the front. 

“Fifty on pump three please,” he adds as he dumps his load onto the counter, righting a bottle of Dr. Pepper that had tumbled over. 

“Umm...” 

Phil blinks, looks up at the sound of surprise and concern the young cashier makes. Following her gaze, he glances out the window toward the SUV, and sees, well... 

A man in his passenger seat struggling with a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs. 

“You’re not kidnapping him, are you?” the girl asks, her eyes wide as she takes a subtle step back from the counter. 

“My husband,” Phil explains, taking this already-ridiculous charade a step-further in an attempt to stop the police from being called. 

Didn’t think that one through did you Coulson? 

“I’m _kidnapping_ him away on vacation for Christmas,” he continues, tossing in fingerquotes and a wink that makes him feel foolish but that seems to work wonders in relaxing the teenager in front of him. “You’re welcome to go speak with him if you like – I appreciate you being such a conscientious young woman.” 

The girl rolls her eyes, holds out her hand for his card. Phil passes it over and bites back a smirk – his cold reading is still sharp. It was a gamble; most teens hate being reminded of the fact that older adults had sex lives, or being complimented on things like being responsible and mature, but you never know. He’s tempted to give her a lecture – she should really be notifying the police anyway – but he doesn’t really want to draw any more attention to himself than he already has. Taking his receipt, he scoops up his bags and heads back for the car, bell jingling cheerfully over the door. Crossing the lot, he climbs back behind the wheel and grins when he sees Barton toss the now-open cuffs onto his duffel in the backseat and flex his abused wrist, the remnants of a pen lying in pieces on his lap. 

“Nicely done specialist,” he praises, handing over the bottle of soda and a bag of Fritos as reward. 

Barton accepts them with a startled little jerk and an expression of shock, staring at Phil with open mouth as he starts the car and pulls back out onto the street, heading for the onramp. 

“Specialist?” he croaks, and Phil frowns. 

“You should have received your pins already,” he says, shaking his head as he merges into the fast lane. “You’ve set enough records. There are a few notes for misconduct in your file, of course, but half of them are bogus.” 

“I...” 

“You’re good at what you do Barton,” Phil insists, turning to look him in the eye for a moment. “You’ve more than proved your ability to qualify as a sniper and a weapons expert. To be honest, you could probably qualify at a few other things besides. Once I’ve taken you on as an asset, once you and Romanov are up and running as a two-man strike team, the title will be a bit obsolete, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it, that you haven’t earned it.” 

Barton just stares, and when Phil finally breaks their gaze to turn his eyes back to the road, he can hear the archer swallow hard. 

“Thank you sir.” 

“You’re welcome,” he says warmly. Surprised by the sudden little heart-to-heart but no less sincere for it. “We’ll sit down and figure it out when we get back, alright? I promise.” 

Barton makes a scoffing sound, shifts in his seat and pulls himself together a bit, tearing into his chips with a squeal of plastic, suffusing the car with the scent of corn and salt. 

“More important stuff to talk about now anyway, I guess,” he says, a bit too brightly as he stuffs a handful into his mouth. 

“Like what?” 

“Umm, like what our story’s gonna be?” he garbles. “You said your parents don’t know the truth about... well, anything really.” 

“To be fair, I haven’t been dishonest,” Phil explains, experiencing a surprising lack of defensiveness and rather more resignation than he expected. “I’ve tried to tell them what I do. Well, a bit of what I do anyway. They didn’t really believe me, and I wasn’t going to do into the gory details. I think my sister might suspect there’s truth in the telling, but I haven’t insisted on anything.” 

“Do you _want_ them to know?” Barton asks, sounding surprisingly understanding. “I’m assuming they’re gonna ask me what I do. That’s something people ask their family’s partner, right?” 

“They’ll probably ask how we met, yes,” Phil acknowledges, leaving off the miserably embarrassing part where they’ll probably ask what someone like Clint is doing with someone like him. “But you can tell them whatever you’re most comfortable telling them. If that means you tell them the truth then tell them the truth – they can believe it or not as they like. If that means you’re not comfortable sharing anything, just wink and tell them it’s classified.” 

“That what you do? Seems a little complicated...” 

“It’s weird,” Phil allows, because that much is true, “But really, it’s easy, and most comfortable for everyone. Nobody pushes the subject. Well, except some of my cousins, but they’re both dicks, so no one really listens to anything they have to say.” 

Clint splutters, chokes on a swig of Dr. Pepper. 

“Are you allowed to say that?” he asks, shocked. 

“I think family are the _only_ ones you’re allowed to say that about. Or to.” 

“Huh. Well, tell me who all I’m meeting then.” 

“My parents, Robert and Ellie,” Phil says, ticking them off on the hand he’s got resting on the wheel. “My mother’s going to fuss over you, so be prepared for that. My older sister Beth, her husband David and their kids, Kate and Seth. My younger brother RJ and his wife Sarah, and their son Aiden. He’s only ten months old. My Aunt Jo will be there, and her sons, Nate and Drew...” 

“The dicks,” Clint surmises, and Phil wonders if something leaked through in his tone or if it was just a lucky guess. 

“Correct. Then there’s my cousin Kyle and his adopted children; America and her twin brothers, Tommy and Teddy. 

“Wow. There are... a lot more of you than I thought there was going to be. 

Phil flinches mentally, licks his lips. 

“I should have warned you,” he says, guilt warring with practicality in his chest. “Christmas with the Coulsons is... kind of an Olympic sport. That’s why we’re headed up so early – it lasts the whole week.” 

“So what do you want _me_ to do?” 

Phil blinks, confused by the lost and slightly panicked tone in Clint’s voice. 

“Just be yourself Clint,” he says gently, frowning. “It won’t be that crazy, I promise. We’ll probably do some sledding or skating one day; hot chocolate, movies, dinner, things like that. It’s not anything _different,_ it’s just all those wintery, holiday things people do being packed together all at once that makes it overwhelming. It’s not that big a deal.” 

“Maybe not for you.” 

“What do you mean?”” 

“I mean I told you already,” Clint huffs, half-defensive, half-miserable, slumping down in his seat and turning to face the window. “I’ve never done any of that stuff before. I don’t know what I’m...” 

Phil’s heart sinks into his stomach and he takes a deep breath, consciously coaching himself to unclench his hands from the steering wheel. He wants to pull over, get out of the car and drag Clint Barton into a hug, because how could he have been so stupid, how could he have pushed aside all those horrible things he’d read in the man’s file going all the way back to childhood? Of course this was a big deal for him – he'd never had Christmas before, certainly not the way the Coulsons did it. Hell, he’d hardly ever had _family._

“It’s nothing competitive Clint,” he says softly, when he’s gotten a handle on all the things racing around in his head, and he very deliberately does not think about the fact that he’s now calling him _Clint._ “No one is expecting anything from you. My mother will be over the moon as long as you’re enjoying yourself.” 

Barton doesn’t respond, but his breathing is measured and his hands are loose in his lap where he’s pulled his knees up against the dash. 

“Join in if you’re comfortable,” Phil counsels, “Hang out and watch if you’re not. You won’t be the only one in either case, and one of the perks of having so many people around is that it’s easy to step out for some air if you need to. I won’t let you flounder, anyway. What kind of partner would I be if I tossed you into the deep end without a life vest?” 

“That’s the other thing,” Barton mutters, a little petulant, but Phil will take it over anxious and depressed any day. 

“What other thing?” he asks. 

“Us,” Barton elaborates. “What are _we_ supposed to do?” 

“You mean as a couple? Nothing special. I meant what I said – no one will be able to judge our relationship against any others I’ve had. They might get nosey and ask some far-too-personal questions, but they mean well. Some closeness and physical touch would be most convincing, but as I’ve said, nothing you’re not comfortable with.” 

“What should I call you?” 

Phil blinks. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You call me Barton,” he points out with a shrug, which, despite his recent slip, is fair. “I guess I could see it since we met at work, but with a whole _house_ full of Coulsons... might get a little confusing.” 

“You could just call me Phil,” he says, with no inflection whatsoever. 

Barton flicks him a cautious glance, chewing on his lip, pauses. 

“Ok.” 

Phil bites the inside of his cheek to hide a smile, tries to tamp down the stupid, warm feeling pushing up in his chest. He’s liked Barton from the start, has been impressed with his work and hopeful that one day they might do that work together, but ever since pulling his file, re-reading everything they had on the Amazing Hawkeye and pulling his name from the pools to place it on his own roster, there’s been... more to it. It’s not romantic inclinations – he impresses that upon himself – and sexual attraction he can handle. Barton is young, fit, and ruggedly handsome, but Phil is surrounded by that type of thing all day long – he can handle it. 

The warm and fuzzies though, _wanting_ to take Clint home and give him a nice Christmas, for reasons that are suddenly, vastly different... 

He doesn’t know quite what to do with that. 

“We’ll be sharing a room,” he warns a bit abruptly, because he feels like he should, “But all the guest beds at the cabin are kings, except for the kids’ bunks in the basement. Shouldn’t be a problem to share for a week.” 

“Slept on a lot worse,” Clint scoffs, then, haltingly, “Your parents loaded or what?” 

Phil grins. 

“It was my great-grandfather’s place,” he explains, suffused with dozens of warm, fond memories. “We’ve always been a big family, close, so they kept adding on as the family grew so that everyone could come back for the holidays. It’s my parents’ now – they bought a condo in Florida after they retired – but we still all come up for Christmas, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, things like that.” 

“Sounds nice...” Clint murmurs. 

Phil glances over, heart thumping at the wistful look on his face. 

“Yes,” he replies, “It really is.” 

And it will be, he decides right then, even if he has to make it.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint spends the rest of the ride silently freaking out. He covers pretty well – he and Coulson talk on and off, listen to the radio, and he manages not to bounce his knee like a piston, but he’s still nervous. Not so much about the fake relationship – Coulson said that they could play it however Clint wanted and things would work out, not to mention it’s hardly a hardship to play the adoring boyfriend. He’s actually filled that role before – Bobbi had even told him he was pretty good at it, surprise, surprise – and Coulson is... 

Well, _hot_ is one word that comes to mind, so there’s that. 

No, what he’s worried about is this whole family thing. 

He knows Christmas ok? Knows what it’s supposed to be. He remembers a few, way back when he was little, that hadn’t been so bad. Not great, not like the stories or anything, but not bad. This though, this sounds like a whole different level of holiday cheer, and while a small, young, embarrassing part of him is eager and excited and hopeful, a much bigger and more realistic part of him is terrified. 

He doesn’t know how to do this. 

Manners, etiquette, expectation, tradition; these are things that he’s never really experienced, never really been a part of on this scale. 

He thinks he’d maybe like to be, thinks the idea of it is great, he just... doesn’t know how _he_ fits into it. 

He’s not exactly meet-the-parents material, no matter what his short-lived romance with one Bobbi Morse had proved. 

“Huh,” Clint murmurs as Coulson – _Phil_ – turns the SUV off of a small-town main street and starts driving up a gravel road at a steep incline. 

“What?” 

Clint glances his way, debates whether or not he should say anything, but the man is wearing a soft, navy-colored henley instead of his typical suit and there’s a tiny bit of powdered sugar on his chest left over from the Little Debbie doughnuts he’d snagged at the gas station. He’s visibly and purposefully been relaxing over the course of their drive from New York to Maine, and Clint’s kind of honored that he gets to see that, what when most of the juniors accuse Coulson of being an LMD commissioned special by Nick Fury himself. It’s definitely Phil he’s talking to right now, not his handler. 

“Nothing,” he explains with an easy shrug. “I just realized I’ve played this role before.” 

Coulson cocks an eyebrow, looks surprised. 

“A couple months ago, I dated Bobbi Morse?” he says, and it comes out more like a question than it would have five minutes ago. “I mean, she told me she wanted to make another one of the snipers jealous and promised me dinner and a movie if I pretended to be her boyfriend. We actually got along really good though. Hunter’s kinda thick, didn’t take the hint right off, so me and Bobbi were thinking about doing it for real by the time he finally figured it out.” 

Coulson blinks at him, expression unreadable, before turning his eyes back to the road. 

“I... I’m sorry she broke it off then,” he says stiltedly, like he isn’t sure that’s the right sentiment to be sharing. “That doesn’t sound fair.” 

“That’s me; always the bridesmaid and never the bride,” Clint chuckles magnanimously. “Nah, I knew it was coming – just ended up being more fun than I thought it would be. We’re all still friends, so it worked out. Anyway, point is, I’m more prepared than I thought I was.” 

Coulson’s hands tighten on the wheel and if he were anyone else Clint might have said he flinched. 

“How so?” 

“I know how to pretend to be a good boyfriend,” he says simply, ignoring the sudden weirdness. “I might not be aiming to make someone jealous, but I know how to make an impression.” 

“That’s what Melendez wrote,” Coulson says dryly, and Clint barks a laugh at the unexpected joke. 

“A _good_ impression,” he corrects, remembering the handler whose bed he had short-sheeted halfway through a week-long op in Cairo. “Melendez deserved what he got.” 

“That I believe,” Coulson agrees with a firm nod. “He’s not cut out to be a handler – for him it's just a stepping stone to where he wants to be one day.” 

Clint frowns, opens his mouth on a _what the hell,_ because he’d been pretty far into the weeds with Melendez when that mission had finally wrapped, and not a soul had wanted to listen to him about how it wasn’t his fault. Coulson though, Coulson sounds like he gets it, and if he gets it then why... 

“We’re here.” 

Clint’s body immediately flashes hot then cold as his heart leaps into his throat, and all thoughts of any mission but this one disappears. He swallows hard as Coulson – Phil, _shit_ – turns the SUV onto what looks like a small off-roading trail but is apparently a driveway. Peering out the windshield, he feels his jaw drop as they clear the top of the hill they’ve been climbing and a sprawling, log-faced cabin comes into view, two-stories high and all dusted with recent snow. It looks like something off of a postcard, a magazine maybe, and he can actually picture what it must look like when night falls, all lit up with warmth from the inside, spilling out through the windows onto the lawn. 

His breath catches in his lungs, and he has to consciously remind himself to shut his mouth and breathe instead of stare like an idiot. 

_Wow._

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise,” Coulson says as he slots the SUV in neatly between a minivan and what looks like a mini monster truck. 

Clint makes a short, choking sort of sound – he hadn’t thought he’d said that out loud. 

“Ready?” 

Blinking, he looks away from the front of the house to see Coulson with his seat belt already off, shrugging back into his coat. Nodding dumbly, he follows suit, unclipping his belt and zipping up his jacket. 

“Grab the bags, will you?” Coulson asks as he pops his door. “I’m going to step inside really quick and let my mom know we’re here, hopefully stave off the masses.” 

“You don’t have to do that...” Clint starts, but even to his own ears it sounds reluctant. 

Coulson smirks. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, climbing out of the car and leaning back inside. _"I_ don’t like being ambushed at the door, and besides, you’re doing me the favor. Least I can do is spare you the immediate inquisition.” 

Something in Clint’s chest goes soft and warm, but before he can say anything Coulson’s offering him a lopsided smile and closing the driver’s door, trudging up the side of the driveway to the front door. Clint very purposefully doesn’t watch him open it, doesn’t watch to see if he’s met at the door as he predicted. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths, closes his eyes and remembers back to Bobbi, the way he’d been with her at the end when things were more real than not. 

She’d said he made a good boyfriend. Said sweet things about how he treated her and who he was. At the time he wasn’t sure if he believed her or not – he'd never been super successful in his relationships before – but she had believed it and that was the point. He knows all the rumors about Phil Coulson, knows what he himself knows about the man, and one thing is for sure, he deserves a good partner. 

Clint can be that, even if it’s for pretend. 

Letting himself slip slowly into a more-civilian headspace, he steps out of the car into the bracing cold. They’re further above sea level than they would be in New York – not quite on a mountain, but he can sense the change in the barometric pressure, can almost taste it in the air. There’s a bit of snow drifting down, just enough to make a pretty picture, and he takes a deep breath, feels the winter weather start to seep in through his coat. 

Grinning to himself, even though he isn’t quite sure why, he leans into the backseat and pulls out their two go-bags, as well as the canvas sack of small, wrapped gifts Coulson had brought along. 

_Phil,_ he reminds himself again, gifts that _Phil_ had brought along, because as intentional as it had been, he’d dropped himself down into a more-civilian headspace as well, and here, with his family, he was most definitely not Agent Coulson. 

A part of that probably wasn’t fair, but Clint ignores the strange feeling that idea puts into the pit of his belly. Instead, he deliberately leaves his bow case tucked safely beneath the backseat and hefts the rest of his load, bumping the car door closed with his hip and turning toward the house. Phil’s already headed back, halfway down the drive, and there’s an older woman standing in the open doorway behind him, but the small jolt of nerves her presence sends zipping through his system isn’t enough to dull the smile that spreads across his face. 

He can do this. 

What’s the worst that could happen?

**AVAVA**

As Phil tromps through the snow up to the front porch of his parents’ holiday home, he curses himself for his lack of planning. To be fair he certainly hadn’t known that someone would actually be accompanying him this Christmas, but that was hardly an excuse. When Clint had asked him what their story was going to be on the drive up, when he had asked how they were going to play it, Phil had nearly floundered as a dozen images of dreadful things went crashing through his head all at once, the various, mortifying reactions he could expect.

He may have played it like he was forging ahead for Clint’s sake, but he’s absolutely doing it for his own. 

He’s barely a step through the door when he’s accosted, his mother sweeping him into a hug despite the fact that she’s got an apron on and flour smudged all down her forearms and across her cheeks, despite the fact that he’s bringing in the cold. He hugs her back, burying his face in her neck because it has been a long time since he’s visited, and he loves his mother. She starts to unwind his scarf from his collar, already talking a mile a minute – _oh Phillip, sweetheart, I’m so glad you could make it_ – then suddenly Kyle is there, then Beth and David and the kids and it’s a whole pile of them clamoring together for hugs and back slaps and cries of _Uncle Phil_ and it’s wonderful. 

Loud and chaotic and perfect and home. 

It’s also a lot to face with only one foot in the door, especially for someone who’s not prepared at all. 

“Phillip, who is that out at the car?” 

Silence falls like his mother had dropped an F-bomb, and she may as well have if the expressions of shock and disbelief staring past him out the door are any judge. Reaching back, he grabs the knob and quickly pulls it closed, both to preserve the heat inside the house and the illusion of privacy. 

“That’s Clint,” he says, choosing at the last minute to leave off an explanation of who he was altogether, so as to save himself the outright lie. “You told me...” 

“Phillip you brought your young man home?” his mother interrupts, all high-pitched wonder and delight as a smile spreads across her face. 

The next thing he knows he’s being crushed against her bosom and hugged to within an inch of his life as half a dozen questions are shot at him like canon-fire. 

_“You brought a guy home for Christmas?”_

_“Since when do you have a boyfriend?”_

_“Who’s Clint?”_

_“Are you kidding me?”_

“Oh but what’s he doing out there, dear, you left him to carry all the bags? You should have brought him right inside,” his mother scolds. 

“I will,” Phil defends, extracting himself from her embrace, “But I wanted to... Prepare you first.” 

“Prepare me for what?” his mother demands, flipping in an instant as her hands go to her hips. “Phillip Jareth Coulson, what on earth did you tell that boy?” 

“Nothing mom,” he reassures, even as his sister starts shooing the others back into the living room, an amused smirk playing around the corners of her mouth. “But there are a lot of us, and Clint... he’s never had much family. I didn’t think an ambush at the door was the best way to introduce him.” 

He leaves off the bit about Clint being a highly trained operative with killer instincts, lightning reflexes, and more than a few well-maintained post-traumatic triggers, just like himself. 

“Oh sweetheart, of course, you’re right,” Ellie Coulson agrees immediately, melting in the face of a new stray to dote on. “I didn’t even think. All of you shoo now; it’s terribly rude to stare.” 

Phil bites back a grin, because even as the last of his family trickles out of the foyer, Ellie is turning with him back to the door. Despite her admonishments, he can feel her watching after him as he steps back out into the cold, drops down the porch steps and crosses the snowy yard to meet Clint halfway down the drive. 

“Sitrep?” he murmurs quietly as he takes the large bag of gifts from his agent, feeling more than a bit nervous. 

Clint just laughs, grins at him softly. 

“Ready babe,” he replies softly, darting in to press a kiss to the corner of Phil’s mouth. “C’mon, your mom’s waiting for us.” 

Phil just stares after him, stunned. 

It’s what he’d asked for, sort of, so he probably shouldn’t be surprised. To pretend to be his partner, to make a few small displays of affection, but he hadn’t thought... 

He wasn’t ready. 

Stupid, he thinks, even as his lips tingle where Clint had kissed him. 

It had been blatant and purposeful, a clear message that Clint was already in mission mode, already into his undercover headspace. 

Just a cheeky response to his request for information, that was all. 

Swallowing hard, Phil ignores the sudden warning bells clamoring in his head and hurries to catch his new ‘partner’ before he reaches the door.

**AVAVA**

Pasting a charming smile onto his face, Clint takes the porch steps two at a time to the front door, light and warmth and laughter spilling through like something out of one of those holiday Hallmark movies he definitely doesn’t watch. The woman waiting for him is slightly shorter and plumper than he expected her to be, but looks soft and sweet in her knitted jumper and frilly apron. Her hair is still thick and blonde, cut into a neat, modern bob, but her eyes are a deep blue that Clint is already pathetically infatuated with and her expression is one of welcome and excitement.

“Hello dear, it’s so nice to meet you,” she says, laying her hand on his elbow as soon as he’s within reach and ushering him into the house. “You must be the young man that’s been keeping my Phillip away.” 

Clint’s heart immediately skips a beat and he scrambles for something to say, because his first thought of course is that Coulson’s only just gotten assigned his file this morning. 

“Oh no, don’t look like that,” Ellie Coulson tuts, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I only meant that it’s just so nice to finally have you here. I was beginning to think that Phillip would never bring you round. Well, that or he was sitting at home with only his cat and his trading cards for company – he is so evasive sometimes you know.” 

Clint chokes on a laugh and wheels around to stare goggle-eyed at his boss, the infamous Agent Coulson, whose mother has him pegged and who, apparently, is not only a badass agent of SHIELD but also a nerdy old cat lady. 

“Yeah, he’s the worst,” he agrees, tossing Ellie Coulson a wink, only to take her hand and bow over it, pressing a kiss to her knuckles as he calls on his old showmanship bravado to carry him through yet another awkward introduction. “Clint Barton, at your service Mrs. Coulson.” 

“Oh you are a charmer, aren’t you,” she clucks, half scolding, half amused as she pats the back of his hand. “But please dear, call me Ellie. Mrs. Coulson just makes me feel so dreadfully old. Phillip, why on earth haven’t you brought him round sooner?” 

“Why indeed?” 

Coulson - _Phillip, hah_ \- doesn’t seem as perturbed as he sounds, placing his bag down carefully and shucking his jacket, so Clint just grins and does the same. Ellie Coulson chatters away as they hang their coats and put their boots onto a long rug to dry, full of words where he son is usually succinct and efficient. He finds it pretty hilarious actually, and very suddenly he can’t wait to see what the rest of the family is like. Maybe if he can figure them out, he can figure out Phil, hang on to him a little longer. 

You know, as his handler... 

“Well I just have so many questions for you, young man,” Ellie says, “But I have a batch of cookies in the oven and I know the rest of them will want all the answers as well. Why don’t you two take your things upstairs, freshen up a bit, then meet us in the living room? Phillip, you and Clint will be in the last room on the left, next to your sister – I don’t want any nonsense between you and your cousins this year, do you hear me?” 

“Yes ma’am,” Coulson replies, more dutiful than Clint’s ever heard him sound, and he bites his lip to rein in another chuckle. 

Ellie offers him one more sweet smile, touches him on the sleeve, then dances off down the hallway toward the faint sound of Christmas music on the radio. 

“Your mom’s really nice,” Clint hears himself say quietly, as he watches her disappear around a corner. 

“Mm, and just brimming with confidential information.” 

Clint blinks, turns around with something a little bit like nervous shock riding on the back of his neck, but Coulson has already turned away and is heading up a flight of wooden stairs off to the left of the entryway. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” he practically blurts out as he moves to follow, but Coulson – and yeah, with how tight his shoulders are, this time it definitely _is_ Coulson – doesn't turn around, or even slow his steps. 

“You’d make a killing in the pools,” he points out, just a shade too casual to be real, and behind him Clint shakes his head vehemently. 

“The pools are stupid,” he argues. “Anybody with half a brain knows how to rig them.” 

“That how you won the pot on Perez’s due date?” Coulson asks. 

Clint, who recognizes a redirect when he hears it, just scowls. 

“Dumb luck,” he offers. “But I meant what I said. I won’t tell anyone about... well, probably any of this. I mean, I might talk to Nat, but that’s more about me than you.” 

Abruptly, Coulson stops and turns on the landing, looking down at Clint two steps below him with his head tilted. 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m not a dick,” Clint practically growls, because _jesus,_ really? “I know how hard it is to build a reputation and how easy it is to break it. And I want you. Um, I mean... _we_ want you. _Need..._ I mean as our handler, you know? Me and Nat?” 

Coulson stares, and Clint prays, _prays_ that his face isn’t as red as it feels, that he hasn’t completely blown everything because even if he _does_ think Coulson’s pretty hot, even if he _has_ had a weird kind of obsession for the guy since he’d recruited him, it doesn’t _mean_ anything. 

This, what they’re doing right now, it’s a whole different game, and it’ll be as easy to mess this up as it is to wreck the reputation that Coulson’s spent so long building, that _Clint_ has spent so long building. 

One stupid joke, one missed shot, and everything... 

Coulson nods, and in his chest Clint’s heart seems to quiver and sigh and relax, a terror he hadn’t recognized leaking out of his body. Turning away without another word, his handler leads him down the hall past half a dozen doors to the very end, pushing inside and casting him a smirk over his shoulder that seems a little flat and forced. Clint follows, opening his mouth to say... something, but then he steps into the room and everything in his brain pretty much stops. 

It’s a modestly-sized room to be fair, though still at least twice the size of Clint’s bunk back at SHIELD. The walls are painted a soft, sage color and a thick, silvery rug covers most of the dark, hardwood floors. The king-sized bed looked as wide and luxurious as promised, covered in what appears to be a heavy, flannel quilt and situated across from a neat little electric fireplace, but what really catches his attention, what literally cannot be ignored, are the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that form the back wall of the room. 

Clint feels his breath catch as he wanders slowly toward the glass, stepping right up to it to look out over a huge backyard, acres of space cleared among banks of dark evergreen trees. It looks a real picture, and he can see... god, for miles probably, out across the property and down to... 

“Is that a lake?” he asks, sounding far too excited to his own ears, and behind him Coulson chuckles. 

“Yes, a few of us will probably head out to skate later this week.” 

“Wow. This place really is incredible.” 

“And you haven’t even really seen it yet. Come on; my sister is liable to come after us if we don’t head back down.” 

Tearing himself away from the view, Clint turns around to find himself confronted with another – Phil Coulson’s denim-clad ass leaned over the end of the bed where he’s reaching for the duffel Clint had let slide to the floor. Swallowing hard, forcing himself not to do something incredibly stupid with his hands, he steps forward and waits until Coulson turns around before slotting himself in close and wrapping his hands around his very nice, very firm biceps. 

“There’s no one watching...” 

“Relax,” Clint interrupts, soft but stern, because the Phil of a few minutes ago is still missing and it’s going to be really hard for him to play boyfriend instead of asset if Phil is playing boss instead of partner. “What happens in Maine stays in Maine, ok? We’ve got this.” 

Leaning in, he presses another kiss to the corner of Phil’s mouth; because he can, not because he should. It had probably been stupid to do it earlier and it was definitely stupid to do it now, but it had felt nice even if it was brief and off-center and not nearly as deep as he suddenly wants it to be. 

It’s ok. 

He can be the confident one here if he has to – Clint knows all about faking it until he’s making it. 

“Come on,” he says with a grin, grabbing Phil’s hand and pulling him toward the door. “Let’s go meet the family.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh there you are,” his mother exclaims softly with a radiant smile as Phil steps into the living room, Clint close on his heels. “We were wondering where you’d gotten to.” 

“Just admiring the view Mrs. Coulson,” Clint chirps, stepping up beside him with a grin on his face. “Sorry, Ellie. You have a beautiful home – thank you so much for having me.” 

“Oh you’re welcome dear,” his mother simpers, a pink blush dusting her cheeks. “We’re so happy you could make it.” 

Phil narrows his eyes – his mother had flirted unrepentantly with his sister’s husband when she’d first brought him home, and while it’s all completely harmless it’s the last thing he needs to suffer this week, especially after... 

“Family, Clint, Clint, family,” he says, a down and dirty introduction, because he can already tell exactly how this is going to go. 

Most everyone groans, his siblings and his cousins all spread out on the long, L-shaped sectionals that dominate the living room, the fireplace crackling between them. Beth laughs, his mother frowns, Nate and Drew snicker and elbow each other in the corner, and his brother RJ has a hideously sneaky look on his face that Phil knows all too well, so he gives in and elaborates. 

“You’ve already met my mother,” he says, laying his hand on her shoulder since she’s nearest, she and his father sitting in their armchairs nearest the heat and across from the flat screen tv hanging on the opposite wall. “This is my father, Robert Coulson.” 

“Pleasure to meet you sir,” Clint says, stepping forward to shake his father’s hand as he rises to his feet. 

“Good to meet you son,” his father replies, and Phil catches himself holding his breath wondering how Clint will react to _that._

He swallows a little hard maybe, but the smile on his face never wavers, all honesty and charm and a subtle courage that Phil has recognized and admired since he’d first laid eyes on the Amazing Hawkeye. 

“My sister Beth,” he continues, as Clint turns just in time to catch his sister who’s lunged to her feet and straight into Clint’s arms. 

“Hi Clint! Oh my gosh, it’s great to finally meet you!” 

Phil rolls his eyes – if he’s right Beth actually has a pretty good idea that he’s telling the truth when he says he’s a secret agent and probably already has her suspicions that Clint’s a plant. She’s good like that, but he’d never actually _said_ he was seeing someone, so he has to wonder what she’s thinking. Either way, her cheer and eagerness are a little over the top. 

Clint just laughs. 

“Nice to meet you,” he agrees, grin even wider as he carefully sets her back onto her feet. “So you must be David.” 

“David Bishop,” his brother-in-law confirms, offering Clint a hearty handshake in lieu of his wife’s more exaggerated greeting. “We’ve got a couple kiddos running around somewhere – I'm sure you’ll meet them soon enough.” 

“Kate and Seth?” Clint asks, shooting a look in Phil’s direction, and yes, he was right – he really doesn’t need the refresher course in undercover – he's doing just fine. 

“That’s them,” Beth laughs, “We brought the mutt along too – I hope you’re not allergic.” 

“Nah, I love dogs,” Clint replies. “So that makes you...” 

“Robert Junior,” Phil cuts in as Clint turns to his brother, because he’s still got that look on his face like the time he’d teased Phil for a week in high school about kissing Tessa Thompson behind the baseball dugout. 

“Just RJ,” he corrects, casting Phil a glare that promised retribution. “This is my wife Sarah.” 

“Nice to meet you Clint,” Sarah smiles up from the couch with a little wave. “I’d shake but...” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint chuckles, waving her off as she gestures to the baby she’s rocking softly in her arms. Aiden’s almost too big for being cradled like a baby anymore, but not quite. “So that means Aunt Jo and Cousin Kyle, right?” 

_‘Excellent recall,’_ Phil thinks as he watches Clint make the last of the introductions around the circle, hugging and shaking hands and accepting easy, comfortable backslaps like he does it every day. It’s hard not to see the agent in the man when he’s admiring the competency and charisma he’s displaying, wooing his family like it’s... well, his job. He shows intelligence too, good cold reading when he ignores the twins and then immediately squares up to them when they stand in sync. 

_“Nate, Drew,”_ they say together in that creepy way they do when they’re being shit heads. 

“Clint,” he replies, easy as you please though with notably less warmth than he’d greeted the rest of the family with. 

Phil tries not to laugh as the three of them shake, knowing with certainty that his cousins are trying to crush Clint’s hand and that Barton isn’t having any of it. He’s bigger than they are, broader shoulders and thicker arms, but without the strange proportions and fake tan that come with soft, repetitive gym workouts and too many protein shakes. No, Barton’s muscle is far more justly earned and it shows, even beneath his soft, checkered button-down. 

Phil coughs as Beth drives her elbow into his ribs, graciously snapping him out of his staring as she and their mother pass, headed toward the kitchen. He rolls his eyes when she winks at him, not half as discrete as she thinks she is. Stepping through the room, he slides his hand down the length of Clint’s forearm and tugs him toward the couch, taking the short side of the sectional left open as far away from his cousins as he can get. 

“Where did the kids go?” he asks, stalling for time so that Clint can at least get settled comfortably before the interrogation starts. 

“Downstairs,” David says, his low voice rumbling smoothly. He’s a large man with a big belly and an even bigger laugh, and Phil’s always found him a calming presence in the face of his sister’s bubbly personality. “They’ve got that old Atari hooked up.” 

“They have an Atari?” Clint asks, perking up even as he somehow manages to sink into the couch and curl himself in to Phil’s side, his feet still on the floor. “That’s so cool! Pacman was my game!” 

“What, not Doom or BattleZone?” Phil asks, surprised by the youthful eagerness in Clint’s voice. 

“Nah,” he says with a shrug, “Too much like work.” 

“What is it that you do Clint?” his mother asks, reappearing with Beth in tow, each carrying a tray of steaming mugs and coffee service. “How did you and Phillip meet?” 

Phil tenses minutely, enough that Clint can probably feel it, but he just grins boyishly and takes a cup of coffee and a sugar cookie with a quiet word of thanks. 

“Your son recruited me,” he explains, conveniently leaving off exactly what Phil had recruited him for. “I’d done some time in the Marines before moving on to some freelance work, and Phil came out to offer me a more... stable position.” 

“Oorah!” Kyle chants, and Clint grins, leaning across the space between the couches to bump his proffered fist. 

“So what do you _do?”_ Nate asks snidely with an unimpressed look, and Clint’s grin sharpens. 

“I’m a government field agent,” he replies before turning to Phil’s mother and casting her a wink, “And that’s classified.” 

The room laughs, and Phil lets go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He must relax some too, because suddenly Clint’s leaning more heavily against his side and stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind Phil’s shoulders to accommodate the shift, and his sister is looking at him with her head tilted, like she’s moving puzzle pieces. 

“So how long have you been seeing each other?” she asks, sniffing after whatever scent she’s caught, and Phil narrows his eyes in her direction, because while he’d expected to get a bunch of crap from Tommy, he’d hoped to get some support from her. 

“A while,” Clint says softly, and when he turns he finds the archer gazing at him with a soft, besotted look that doesn’t entirely mask the amusement sparking in his colorful eyes. Phil swallows hard, doesn’t know what to do, because suddenly he feels like he should be kissing Clint and that’s just stupid, even if his entire family weren’t watching. 

Er... especially if they weren’t watching. 

“Well I think it’s just wonderful dears,” his mother says with a delighted smile, sipping at her coffee. “Only I do wish he’d told us a little more about you Clint.” 

Clint smiles. 

“Not much to tell,” he replies. “I grew up same as any kid, I guess. Ran away and joined the circus when I was nine, travelled a few years, then grew up and joined the military.” 

_“Wait, what?!”_

Phil watches with a mild sense of fascination and wonder as Clint throws his head back and laughs, starts regaling the lot of them with the story of his misspent youth – sanitized for mixed company of course. He’s got the snap and timing of a good showman and the pride of an artisan, and he has them all spellbound as he tells the tale, about traveling with Carson’s Carnival and becoming one of their star performers. Phil himself learns a few things listening to him tell it, and marvels a bit over the difference between Barton’s reaction here in his home and back at HQ. 

Within SHIELD he’s rather notorious for being tight-lipped about his past – quite a feat considering how mouthy he is in the cafeteria and over the comms. He doesn’t like questions about his days in the circus, goes stiff and defensive when it’s mentioned, and has been accused of some pretty nasty pranks by agents stupid enough to question his skill and his prowess. He’s never been caught as far as Phil knows, but that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t a distinct pattern to the occurrences - Jenkins coming in to work with his hair dyed a deep lilac color, complete with the distinct mottling of a bad home-job, had been a fairly glaring clue. 

But here... 

Well, here he’s all easy grins and heavy, relaxed body language, his arm curling around Phil’s shoulders to drape over his side and he’s like a completely different person. 

It’s a job, Phil knows that. 

They’d both gone into this with a fair bit of ambiguity regarding boundaries and expectations, but he’d been sure when Clint had kissed him that first time in the driveway that the archer had already submersed himself in whatever cover he’d created in his head, gone to that place that all good agents can go when they’re living their false identity. Now though, now he’s not so sure, watching Clint charm his family so easily and naturally, and after what had happened upstairs... 

He hadn’t thought about what it would mean to let Barton into his life, to give him a glimpse behind the mask of the infamous Agent Phillip J Coulson of SHIELD. His mother’s chattering had impressed that upon him before they’d gotten more than a few steps into the house, and it had felt like being thrown naked into a snowbank, an icy-wet shock to the system. He’d probably come across a bit... colder than he’d meant to in consequence, but Barton had been so determinedly sincere, so stumblingly beholden... 

It had been painful to witness – he’s quickly coming to realize that Clint Barton has a disturbing ability to bypass all his carefully cultivated defenses and make Phil want to pet his hair and feed him like some back-alley stray left out in the rain. 

_‘Not far off the mark,’_ he muses, thinking back to that day in Turkey when he’d shot the scrawny young man and then promptly hauled him up into a quinjet to perform the field dressing himself. 

Barton had hit something hard in him when SHIELD had first started haring off after Hawkeye, and that was half the reason Phil had let him be thrown into the pools when he’d first passed basic training. He couldn’t afford to be compromised, couldn’t afford to show preferential treatment, but he’d always hoped one day their paths would cross more permanently. 

This wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

**AVAVA**

Clint leans back into the soft couch cushions and very deliberately doesn’t think about how nice it is to wrap his arm around his boss’s shoulders, to lean against him and relax here in the middle of a warm, family living room. The coffee Ellie Coulson had provided was rich and dark and so much better than SHIELD coffee, and the cookies were just the right amount of sweet, taking the edge off his hunger. The Coulson family all seemed chilled out and at ease, not at all uncomfortable with someone new in their midst, and they’d laughed and looked disbelieving in all the right places as he’d told his story.

Well, parts of his story anyway. 

He’s not sure why he’d done that. 

A part of him is just doing what Phil had told him to do; tell the truth because the truth was so ridiculous no one would believe it. 

Another part of him just really hadn’t wanted to lie. 

Coulson’s mom Ellie is pretty much the sweetest little lady he’s ever met, his sister Beth is hilarious, and to be perfectly honest everyone else seems pretty cool too, even the kids who’d all come thundering up the stairs for more cookies, yelled a quick hi in his direction, and run right off again. The only one who seemed particularly infatuated with Clint was the mixed breed Labrador mutt Lucky, whom Clint had gone to the floor to pet and subsequently been buried underneath for several minutes. 

“So you and my brother work together huh?” Beth asks with a sly smirk, and he abruptly remembers Phil’s suspicions that she knows more of the truth than the rest. “Who asked who out first?” 

“Neither really,” Clint says easily, even as Phil’s shoulders tense minutely beneath his arm. “I mean, I was attracted to him the first time I saw him, but he was way out of my league back then.” 

_“He_ was out of _your_ league?” one of the cousins asks snidely while other snorts, and Clint bares his teeth in a sharkish grin. 

“So far,” he confirms gleefully. “Probably still is to be honest.” 

A small ripple of noise rounds the group – some chuckles, some thoughtful murmurs, some sounds of derision – and beside him Coulson frowns like he thinks Clint is lying and doesn’t like it. 

“You know what they say babe,” Clint says wink, bumping him playfully with his shoulder, “Confidence is the new sexy, and you’ve got it in spades.” 

“That _does_ sound like Phillip,” Ellie smiles, standing up to start collecting the coffee service and if Clint didn’t know better he’d think that IceMan Phillip J Coulson of SHIELD blushed. 

“Why don’t you give Clint the tour little brother?” Beth suggests, bouncing to her feet to help her mom. “The kiddos wanted to kick off with movie night this year, so we’ll be calling in to Donovan’s in about fifteen.” 

Phil doesn’t make any reply, just curls himself up from beneath Clint’s arm and rises to his feet, reaching down to take Clint’s hand and tug him up of the couch. He makes to let go but Clint hangs on – just for appearances’ sake of course. Not like talking about Coulson’s confidence and their first meeting hadn’t gotten Clint to thinking about all the things the guy’s got going for him – the competence and the strategic brilliance and the rough, heavy gun callouses on his fingers and palm... 

Clearing his throat, Clint drops his hand and rubs the back of his neck, turning to face Phil more fully as the family starts to break up around them. 

“Show me around?” he asks, but Phil stares at him for a long moment before nodding. 

He screws up his nose when he immediately gets a hearty backslap from his brother RJ, who actually looks a lot like him only about ten years younger, then grabs Clint’s hand again and drags him determinedly away, almost as if he’s running from something. Clint wants to ask what’s up as they start down the stairs into a well-lit basement, but thinks better of it at the last minute. 

To be fair there’s a lot going on. 

“What’s Donovan’s?” he asks instead, and the grin Phil offers him is a little more real, a little less strained than all the others. 

“Our favorite pizza place,” he explains before pausing, “Though _favorite_ might be generous. It’s the only one that will deliver all the way up here, and they really only do that for the tips. A Coulson family pizza party can probably keep them in business single-handedly for a month.” 

“Movie night?” he presses, because damn, that had actually sounded... happy. Excited even, like maybe the guy was loosening up a little. 

“There’s an itinerary... sort-of,” Phil replies, and there’s that scrunchy face again that is way too adorable on a man his age. “A list of traditions we try to hit every year. Movie night is one of the tried-and-trues – hope you like Christmas Classics.” 

“Depends on your definition of classic,” Clint replies with a shrug, but before Phil can reply they hit the bottom landing and Seth, who’s six - _and a half!_ \- comes barreling across the floor and crashes into Phil’s legs. 

He scoops him up without thought, like it’s instinct, before heading into the open basement, and Clint watches him move along the long, glass sliding doors that offer the view out onto the backyard. He hadn’t lied when he said he’d been attracted to Coulson from the start, but it wasn’t his confidence that had done it. That had come later – not much, but definitely after the good look Clint had gotten at his ass and his arms and... all the rest of him. 

Those eyes are a knock-out. 

Shaking himself out of his more PG-rated thoughts, he crosses the floor to join Phil on the rug, where the rest of the kids are sacked out on bean bag chairs. Kate and America, both fourteen or fifteen by Clint’s estimation, are chattering rapidly off to the side, painting their fingernails an enviable shade of purple, while Seth and his cousins, Teddy and Tommy, who look about two years older, work the Atari controllers with all the fervor of young boys who’ve gotten ahold of their first video game. Lucky lounges between them, but gets up to come to Clint’s side with wagging tail, leaning against him for scritches. 

“The basement is usually where the kids stay,” Phil explains, waving a hand. “There’s a foozball table and an air hockey table over there – please feel free to take my cousins for everything they own when they inevitably bet that they can beat you at one or the other.” 

“I’ll do it for you babe,” Clint vows, fluttering his eye lashes when Kate and America giggle. 

Phil just rolls his eyes, turns to the far side of the room where there are multiple bunkbeds built right into the wall. 

“Bunks for the rugrats, but don’t think that will stop them from waking up the entire house on Christmas morning.” 

“Uncle Phil, it’s _Christmas!”_ Kate exclaims, sounding scandalized. “Of course we get up early. Besides, we’re not _old_ like some people.” 

“Yeah Uncle Phil, don’t be a spoilsport,” America pouts. 

“You’ve been listening to your father again, haven’t you?” Phil replies dryly, walking around behind America to ruffle her thick hair. 

She swats at him, but she laughs too, so it must be some kind of inside joke. 

Phil strolls Clint closer so he can peer curiously at all the little beds built into their own cubbies, reminded – in good ways and bad – of bunking in with the other circus performers as a child. When he’s had his fill of them and of the view through the patio doors, they wave to the kids and head back upstairs, touring quickly through the rest of the main floor. Phil points out the bathrooms and takes him through the kitchen, where Beth and Ellie are cleaning up a baking explosion. He snags a couple more cookies off the counter with a wink for Phil’s mom, which earns him a blush and a shooing motion, then they head upstairs for a brief tour of the bedrooms, ending with their own. 

“This house is huge,” Clint murmurs as they step into their bedroom at the end of the hall, drawn by his own nature toward the windows. 

It’s a beautiful view, high up as the late winter sun starts its early descent, and he feels like he could stand there forever. 

“It was smaller when my great-grandfather bought it,” Phil replies quietly, grabbing his duffel from the bed and carrying it over to the small dresser near the door. “He started renovations the day he was handed the keys. I don’t think a year’s gone by since when something hasn’t changed.” 

“But it still feels like home,” Clint guesses, glancing over his shoulder as he’s drawn by the warm tone in Phil’s voice. 

“I don’t think of home as a place,” he says thoughtfully, tucking the last of his shirts into a drawer and carrying his duffel to the bedside table, transferring a butterfly knife, a loaded handgun, and the pink handcuffs into the drawer. “It’s more about the people in it, the things you do together.” 

“Maybe,” Clint murmurs, and no, he’s not ready to rethink all his time in the circus, not ready to re-examine his understanding of what certain words mean. 

“Hungry?” 

Clint blinks, startled out of his musings, which given the look on Coulson’s face had been half the point. 

“Starving,” he replies with a grin, and when he reaches out to take the other man’s hand he doesn’t immediately pull away. 

Progress then. 

_‘Whoever does date him is one lucky bastard,’_ Clint thinks as they get downstairs just in time for the doorbell to ring, Robert Coulson carrying a wad of paper cash and a fistful of candy canes to the door to meet the delivery guy. _'To get to have all of this.’_

Because it’s not just Coulson. He’s a big enough draw in himself, damn, and Clint’s incredibly psyched knowing that he gets to have him as his handler, but the rest of it, the family that comes pouring into the kitchen to grab slices of piping hot pizza and cans of Coke, rolls of paper towels, and carry it all off to the living room again, that... that’s kind of awesome. 

Phil swipes a large Hawaiian and when Clint follows happily after him, Beth makes a crack about how perfect they are for each other if Clint can stomach his taste in pizza. Clint laughs and points out that any pizza is good pizza, while secretly thinking that he’d put up with a lot worse if he got to have her brother in return. Seems like an inappropriate comment to make in front of company, but the next thing he knows he’s snuggled up with Phil on the end of the couch with a throw blanket tossed across their knees and it seems rather tame in comparison. 

The family ranges out across the furniture, the couples paired up and the kids sacked out on the floor minus Aiden, who’s already drifting off to sleep on his father’s chest, the smell of pepperoni and quiet chatter filling up the empty spaces. There’s nothing inherently _Christmas_ about it, but Clint gets that feeling anyway. It doesn’t make much sense, but when he thinks about what Phil had said before about home and family, he thinks maybe he gets it. 

“So what _is_ your favorite?” Phil asks as Beth grabs the remote off an end table and pulls up her Amazon Prime account. 

“It’s probably a tie,” Clint admits, glad that the lights have been dimmed because he’s pretty sure he’s blushing. “I love ‘A Year Without a Santa Clause,’ but I actually really like ‘The Muppet Christmas Carol.’” 

“Yes!” Kate cheers, reaching up to give Clint a greasy high-five. “That’s me and America and Uncle Phil’s favorite too! We’re finally gonna win the vote!” 

“Oh, you don’t have to...” 

“Rules are rules sweetie, and besides, you’re a guest,” Ellie Coulson tuts, looking delicate and demure with her thin-crust margherita pizza. “Phil and the girls always have to wait till last; they’ve been outnumbered for years.” 

“Sounds like we’ve got a new number one,” Beth agrees, pulling up what is - in Clint’s estimation - the greatest Christmas movie of all time. 

Across the way Nate and Drew are complaining and muttering about Home Alone, but beside him Phil is looking quietly pleased. Afraid of saying something he shouldn’t, Clint stuffs a slice of pizza into his mouth and promptly burns his tongue on some molten cheese, but all in all it’s totally worth it. By the time Animal comes on screen to start Fozziwig’s Christmas party with a killer drum solo, he’s finished his share, subtly flipped his crust to Lucky, and hunkered down into the couch cushions to enjoy the movie. 

Phil’s arm coming to rest around his shoulders feels so natural he almost doesn’t notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Year Without a Santa Claus' and "Muppet Christmas Carol' for the win!


	5. Chapter 5

Phil wakes up the next morning feeling warm and safe and rested, something that’s more surprising than not nowadays. He breathes deeply against the pillow under his cheek, smells his mother’s favorite fabric softener, and relaxes further into the bed. 

That’s right; he’s home, in his own room, surrounded by family and... 

And apparently Clint Barton. 

He’s a bit unnerved that he’s only just come to that realization. 

Normally waking up with another person’s arm slung around his waist, their chest warm against his back would garner a bit of a flinch reaction from him. He’s shared a bed before obviously, on missions and with casual partners, but it’s something that happens very, very rarely, and as he’s previously pointed out, he’s never brought anyone _home._

Forcing himself to breath calmly, Phil thinks back to the night before, because he’s certain they’d gone to sleep on their own separate sides of the bed. It hadn’t been an issue, thank god, because he’d been having concerns about it all evening as he and Clint had snuggled on the couch - for the benefit of his family of course - but in the end it had been like sharing any other safe house; quick turns in and out of the bathroom to brush and gargle, and very deliberately not looking as the other changed. Phil had gotten a bit of an eyeful when Clint had come to bed in a pair of pajama bottoms and nothing else, but since he’d offered to put on a shirt for Phil’s benefit, there was nothing he could do but offer him an unimpressed look in return and decline. 

He’s a grown man, he’s not going to lose a game of chicken over a little skin – and besides it’s not like Barton has anything he hasn’t seen before. 

Well, he hasn’t seen Barton’s _specifically,_ much to his disappointment, but you get what... he... means... 

_Oh god..._

Mortified, Phil attempts a subtle roll to extricate himself, but Barton just grumbles and tightens his grip around Phil’s waist, pulling him in and pressing his mouth to the nape of Phil’s neck. 

“Wha time izzit?” he mumbles, nuzzling into the curve of his shoulder. 

“Time to get up,” Phil says, praying he’ll be let go and despairing over the fact that his agent is playing his cover so well, even when there’s no one else around. God, he’s so warm. “Barton. I’m serious, my sister will be in here with an air horn if we don’t at least start moving.” 

Huffing, Clint releases his grip and rolls over, muttering something about coffee before dragging a pillow over his head. 

“There’s plenty of coffee, I promise,” he says, the relief painfully clear in his tone as he climbs out of the bed, and hopefully lost on Clint’s covered ears. “But if you want any bacon you need to get up.” 

Grabbing his clothes out of the dresser, Phil makes his escape for the bathroom across the hall and is careful not to meet his own gaze in the mirror. Of the two of them he never would have expected that he would be the one struggling with this, the one blurring the lines of the lie they're telling. Yes, he finds Barton attractive, but they’re not really dating and he shouldn’t be enjoying it like they are. 

That way lies madness. 

It’s none of his business why Clint is playing this the way he is; if he needs to go full deep-cover to pull off his role then that’s what he needs to do. It’s good information to have as his handler – nothing more. 

He’s being ridiculous. 

Phil makes it downstairs before half the others; the kids sleeping late in the basement and half the adults taking advantage of it. His cousins are up unfortunately, but Beth, Sarah, and RJ are in the kitchen helping his mother with breakfast while Aiden plays in his highchair. Phil tousles his hair as he passes, heading to the stove to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. 

“Good morning.” 

“Oh good morning sweetie; where’s Clint?” she asks. 

“Sleeping in I think,” Phil says casually, “He should be down in a bit.” 

“Did he really grow up in a circus?” Beth asks curiously, and behind her Nate and Drew both snort in unison. 

“He did, for several years,” Phil confirms, chewing his lip before deciding that it’s ok to elaborate a bit, since Clint had told the story himself. “He’s trained in a lot of different acts - the acrobatics and the tumbling and things - but he’s unparalleled in marksmanship. He became their most popular act by the time he was sixteen; I’ve seen his posters.” 

“You’ve seen my posters?” 

Phil startles, swallowing down a curse at the obvious tell. Clint’s standing in the open doorway of the kitchen, his head tilted and a soft look on his face that Phil can’t quite read. 

“I have,” he says carefully, unsure where this is going, but then a smile breaks across Clint’s face and he’s all sunshine and butter-blonde hair, boyish and mischievous. 

“I haven’t seen one of those things in years,” he says, coming to stand at the island close enough to press against Phil’s side. “Probably a good thing – that costume did me no favors.” 

“But it was purple,” Phil teases, but Clint scrunches up his face, shakes his head. 

“But the _spangles,”_ he whines. “With the way they threw the light I’m lucky I didn’t miss every shot I took. Dunno _what_ Carson was thinking.” 

“You never miss,” Phil says, as easy and confident as anything since this is basic, well-established fact, but beside him Clint goes still and quiet. 

“Right,” he murmurs. “Yeah. That’s me, the Amazing Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman!” 

He’s all grins and blusterous bravado now, and Phil wonders what he said wrong. 

“Decided to get up?” he asks, since he can’t figure out how to ask the other thing in front of everyone. 

“Yeah, I was promised coffee,” Clint agrees, bumping his shoulder playfully, “And besides, it’s no fun lazing around in bed all morning when you’ve already left.” 

Across the island RJ barks a laugh and Phil narrows his eyes, but Clint leans in to press a kiss to his cheek before rounding behind him and walking up to the stove to peer over his mother’s shoulder. 

“Anything I can do to help?” 

“No, I think we’re just about done here,” she says, turning off the burners with a snap of her wrist. “We’ll eat in the dining room but we serve in here; saves on dishes you know. Beth, would you go wake up the kids? The rest of you can pour yourselves something to drink if you’d like – there's coffee and orange juice in the fridge.” 

There’s a small burst of movement as everyone goes for plates and mugs and silverware, but Phil’s distracted from it all keeping an eye on his siblings. His brother is at the cabinets taking down plates but Beth is giving him a shifty side-eye, grinning as she heads toward the basement stairs to wake her children. 

Phil pointedly ignores her – over the years he’s found that to be the most effective method. 

The next thing he knows everyone is piling into the kitchen and Clint’s lost in the chaos of shifting bodies and bright chatter. Mountains of scrambled eggs and bacon are dished up as some butter toast and others pour coffee, Lucky weaving in and out between people’s knees until he’s banished to his heated doghouse on the back porch. As kitchen finally starts to clear and people head for the dining room, Phil catches Clint balancing two plates and two mugs in his hands as he helps little Seth make his way after the rest of them, plastic cup of juice held carefully in both hands. 

“I’ve got you babe,” he says, handing a mug off to Phil as he passes, and sure enough it’s full to the brim with hot coffee just the way he takes it; one spoon of sugar and just a drop of cream to cut the bitterness. 

Phil stares after him, stunned – because when had Barton learned how he takes his coffee, _how_ had Barton learned how he takes his coffee? – but then his sister bumps him from behind and looks at him with something that almost passes for concern on her face. 

“You really like him, huh?” she says, and Phil blinks at her, heart thumping hard. 

He doesn’t, he hardly knows the man after all, but he _could,_ quickly and easily, and that fact hits him with all the suddenness and subtlety of a Mac truck. Guilt, embarrassment, and a sense of failure follow quickly after the realization because it’s stupid, and hadn’t he told Barton that this was voluntary, that he didn’t coerce his agents? And hadn’t Barton already let slip some anxieties, some hints at a past in which he’d suffered that already? 

Jesus, what is he thinking? 

It’s fine, he decides, squaring his shoulders and heading into the dining room. 

He’s being silly – this is just an op, and Barton is doing what he was told to do. Neither of them have done anything wrong, and so far they’ve played off each other beautifully, picked up each other’s cues with all the ease of old partners. 

It’s a _good_ thing. 

When this is over, they’ll go back to SHIELD and their real lives and their real roles and that will be that. 

All he has to do is survive through Christmas without doing something monumentally stupid.

**AVAVA**

Clint is absolutely delighted by the spectacle that is the entire Coulson family gathered around the dining table for breakfast. It’s a long, narrow thing with about twenty chairs spaced evenly all around it – plenty of room for everyone – and looks like something Phil’s famed great-grandfather had sawn out of a massive ash tree. One solid plank, it’s been polished to a gleaming, honey-colored shine, and he finds himself tracing the lines and knots of the wood beneath his fingers as he listens to the chatter all around him.

It’s nice. 

The kids run in and out of the room after ketchup and jelly and juice, Ellie and Aunt Jo discuss knitting projects, and Roberts Senior and Junior bicker about the Detroit Red Wings’ chance at the Stanley Cup, as weird as that is for two people from Maine. Clint talks with Kyle a bit about his military experience, finding relief in a fellow Marine who knows a little about the kind of life he’s led, and he makes caustically casual replies to Nate and Drew anytime they feel the need to insert themselves into the conversation. They sell protein drinks for a living apparently – he finds this patently hilarious. 

Phil doesn’t say much of anything at all. 

When breakfast is over and they all start to carry their dishes back to the kitchen, Clint catches him by the wrist and holds him back, snuggling in close against his chest and pressing their cheeks together. 

“Relax,” he urges, quiet enough that no one else can hear. “What’s wrong?” 

He thought he’d been doing a good job, but now he’s not so sure. 

Phil frowns a bit, shakes his head and pulls away. 

“Nothing,” he answers, but Clint doesn’t believe him and pulls an unimpressed face. 

Coulson sighs. 

“I’m just not used to this,” he admits, and ok, that seems more accurate. “I don’t date all that often, certainly never someone so attractive. Or attentive.” 

Clint tilts his head, surprised, because not only is Phil Coulson actually blushing, he’s just said something that hits Clint at his core. 

“Aw, you saying I’m a good boyfriend babe?” he asks, mouth curving in a slow grin, because Beth is making goo-goo eyes at them over Phil’s shoulder as she passes them with a fistful of dirty forks. “You deserve it.” 

Phil rolls his eyes but smiles a little too, starts to move away. 

“Hey.” 

He pauses, looks back apparently surprised by Clint’s stopping him, but they’re alone now and all of a sudden Clint really, really needs him to know that he’s telling the truth. 

“I’m serious,” he says gravely. “I was serious before. I try you know - with Bobbi, and I’m trying for you, but you _are_ way out of my league, no matter what your cousins say. You deserve somebody who cares about you.” 

Coulson stares at him and there’s something in his eyes that looks a little scared, a little startled. Clint’s feeling more than a little raw himself, having just said way more than he’d meant to. Quirking his mouth into a lopsided grin, he gives Phil’s wrist a squeeze and steps past him, heads into the kitchen feeling like he’s just... taken a tumble or something. 

He doesn’t usually feel this way. 

Stacking his plate in the dishwasher with the rest, he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a step back so Phil can get in behind him, determinedly not looking at the guy like some kind of lost puppy after his master. He’s doing his best, he really is, but he feels like he’s messing this up somehow. 

He just hasn’t put his finger on it yet. 

“Alright everybody, listen up!” Beth carols, and Clint cocks an eyebrow as a stack of paper printed with a candy-cane border that appears out of nowhere and starts making its way around the kitchen. 

“Oh, Lisbeth, really!” Ellie says scoldingly, but her husband laughs and wraps his arms around her with a smile. 

“We agreed this was the easiest way mom!” Beth argues, and Clint bites his lip because that sounded dangerously close to a whine. 

Her husband David clears his throat and Beth pouts at him, but seems to concede the point as her enthusiasm dims just a little. 

_“Anway,”_ she grumbles with pointed looks around the room, “This is the itinerary so far. You all remember what happened last year, so _this_ is the schedule we will be sticking to! I don’t want to hear any complaining about the list of activities, _Drew;_ if you don’t want to participate you are free to occupy yourselves with something else.” 

Clint bites the inside of his cheek – ok, so that was awesome and Beth Bishop is obviously a firecracker, a Coulson through and through. She’s shooting glares at the cousins like she’d turn them to stone if she could, and it’s probably the most hilarious, ridiculous thing that’s happened out of all of this so far. Leaning in against Phil’s side, he peers over his shoulder at the paper he’s perusing and finds a dozen activities listed out over the course of the week leading up to Christmas. The big day actually falls on Saturday, which makes Friday night Christmas Eve, and Phil’s sister has things planned right up through the final moments, but there’s still plenty of open time in between for people to do their own thing. 

Movie Night has already been marked off with a happy green checkmark. 

“We’re heading out to find the Christmas tree in twenty people!” Beth declares, clapping her hands together as the kids cheer. “Bathroom breaks before we go and make sure you bundle up – it's supposed to start snowing by lunch!” 

“I didn’t see any Christmas trees for sale on the way up,” Clint says as the group disperses and Phil turns to head for the stairs. “How far do you guys have to drive?” 

“We don’t drive, we walk,” Phil explains as he trots up the stairs. “We actually cut down our own tree; the property goes on for about thirty acres behind the house and there’s a pretty thick stand of pines out there. We’ll take the truck up the trail a ways, then get out and hike the last little bit.” 

“That’s so cool!” Clint grins, darting past Phil up the hallway toward their room. “Come on, I don’t want them to leave without us!” 

Twenty-six minutes later – Clint knows, because Beth is tsking under her breath near the front door as she consults her fitbit – everyone that’s going has gotten themselves stuffed into boots and caps and coats and heads outside. True to prediction, the air’s got that dry, crisp quality that promises more snow, and the kids immediately start running around in the yard, shrieking and kicking up what little of it there already is. RJ and Sarah have stayed behind with their baby along with Ellie Coulson and Aunt Jo, but everyone else is along for the outing, even, to Clint’s surprise, Nate and Drew. 

“Let’s get those trucks warmed up son,” Robert Coulson rumbles in his low, raspy voice, and Kyle grins, stepping in close to clap his uncle on the shoulder. 

Clint watches as Phil’s father crosses the lawn with his nephew, watches _Phil_ for a reaction, but he’s looking over the group with a smile and doesn’t seem surprised or upset by his father’s words. 

He’d worried, see, when he’d first introduced himself and Robert Coulson Sr. had called _him_ 'son.' 

Clint doesn’t have a lot of experience with fathers, doesn’t have many good memories of his own, but he thinks if he’d had a good one he’d have guarded him jealously. Phil, it seems, is content to share, with his cousin, with Clint, but perhaps that’s part of being family, of having those connections. 

He’d like that, he thinks. 

He can see himself having that, with Coulson, with Nat. 

He’s never been a part of a Strike Team before, but it sounds... nice. 

He thinks they could be like a family, one day. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

“Family,” Clint responds softly, easily, not hurting the way he usually is when he gets drunk enough to think about things he wants but has never had. “It’s nice.” 

“Yeah, they’re alright,” Phil huffs, but the curve at the corner of his mouth betrays his words. 

“Thanks, for bringing me up here,” Clint says quickly, as Robert and Kyle wave from the side of the drive and start herding the group toward two waiting pickups. “For letting me share this.” 

“You’re doing me the favor, remember?” 

Clint tilts his head, because that had sounded distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Are we ok?” he asks, causing Phil to startle. “I mean, it seems like maybe I’m doing something wrong...” 

“You’re not doing anything wrong Clint,” Phil promised, and something that had gone tight in his shoulders relaxes. “I promise. I told you before, I’m just not used to this. I’m... a different person at work, with SHIELD; I know you’ve seen the difference. I _can_ be soft with them because they already think of me that way, but that doesn’t make it easy for me to do. I can work past it, just takes some time is all. But...” 

Clint waits for him to continue but a horn honks, breaking the little moment they’d had. They’re the only ones not already piling into the bed of a pick-up, so they have to scramble to get a seat in Kyle’s before it fills up and they’re stuck riding with the cousins. Nate and Drew just have that aura about them, like they’re being obnoxious on purpose. Phil gives him a helping hand up into the truck and then accepts Clint’s in return, and he wonders if he’s being rewarded for keeping the three cousins separate. 

“What are the rules?” Phil asks in a very serious voice, looking around at Kate, America, Teddy, and Tommy, all of whom are riding with them. 

“Stay sitting down,” they all chorus, plopping down on their butts onto the blanket thrown over the cold metal of the truck bed. 

“Hands and feet stay inside and no horseplay,” Phil adds as he and Clint wedge themselves in against the tailgate. 

“We _know_ Uncle Phil!” America grumbles with faux-annoyance, and Phil sticks his tongue out at her, startling a laugh out of Clint. 

The truck lurches and they all sway, then things smooth out and they start trundling around the side of the house, down through the backyard toward the lake. Teddy starts up a rousing chorus of Jingle Bells and he joins in along with everyone else, at least until they’re past the lake and headed up another hill into the trees. 

Then his breath catches. 

It really is beautiful. They’re not in the mountains per se, but you wouldn’t know that by looking around. Clint has a pretty good sense of space and direction, but he has no idea how much thirty acres really is, how much it could feel like. They drive for about ten minutes until the trail runs out and park beside a little structure that he recognizes as a hunting blind, and beyond that? 

Well. 

Beyond that is all snow and gentles hills and dark green pine trees all dusted in white, and it looks like a picture right out of a postcard. 

Clint feels a grin spreading across his face even as Phil lowers the tailgate and helps the kids all pile out, waiting until he’s had his moment before tugging him along by the sleeve of his coat. 

“Come on,” he says as Clint climbs down, “Let’s go find a tree.” 

It’s not what he thinks it will be, though, to be fair, he has no real idea. Everyone goes dashing off in different directions, shrieking and laughing and trying to toss snowballs that refuse to stick together, the light dusting too dry and powdery to pack. The kids scatter, the adults pair off, and even the twins disappear into the trees at a run. Clint gets the distinct impression that there’s a bit of competition to this whole thing, so when Phil grabs his hand and drags him into the trees up the hill his face aches with the grin that spreads across it. 

It’s a short jog up the little path to get into the true heart of the pines, a thick stand of trees all dark green and fragrant. Phil pulls him off the trail and slows, dropping his hand to wander slowly forward, and where he’s gazing around at the dozens of evergreens hemming them in, Clint can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the man himself. 

He gets it, what Phil had said earlier. Maybe it’s not so hard for _him_ to unwind at the end of a long week, but Coulson is a consummate professional, a real spy’s spy. He’s been doing this a lot longer and a lot harder than Clint, and if this little vacation is anything to show, he doesn’t come home and relax all that often. Unwinding enough to chill out with civilians, to relax is hard enough, but if he’s really not used the to the kind of simple affection Clint’s been showing him... 

Well, it’s kind of sad. 

Makes him want to wrap the guy up in something soft and warm and cuddle him to death, which... is probably not how he wants to be thought of... 

“Come on _Hawkeye,_ help me find a tree.” 

Laughing, Clint jogs forward to catch up. 

He’s got all week to shower Phil with the little tokens of affection he deserves from a boyfriend, and a perfectly good reason to do it. 

Coulson had said he didn’t mind, and it’s not exactly a hardship for Clint. 

Nothing to say he can’t enjoy it while it lasts, until they go back to work and start a different kind of relationship. 

He can do this. 

He’s not setting himself up again, to fall in love with an unavailable coworker. 

Nah. 

No way.

**AVAVA**

In the end Clint winds up finding the perfect tree – because of course he does.

He’s not called Hawkeye for nothing. 

Phil experiences a small, warm, burst of pride as his cousin Kyle helps his father cut down the eight-foot pine, thick through the middle, full and green while the rest watch, and he doesn’t even try to pretend that’s it’s any kind of professional admiration. 

It’s personal, plain and simple – here, in this context, his partner picking out the perfect family Christmas tree before his cousins or anyone else. 

They cut the thing down with a handsaw and Clint jumps right in to help Kyle carry it back to the truck, strapping it onto the small platform trailer attached to the hitch. They all pile back into the trucks up and over the sides so as not to break the branches, and then they’re heading back down toward the house belting out Christmas carols over the rumble of the engines. 

Clint is laughing, singing along, his cheeks and the tip of his nose pink from the cold. Phil doesn’t realize it but he holds Clint’s hand all the way back and when they climb down, everyone laughing and helping each other off the tailgate, he pulls him in close and nuzzles his temple, squeezes him tight with the arm wrapped around his waist. 

Clint blinks, looks surprised, and Phil has all of half a second to regret the intimacy, but then a smile is spreading across Clint’s face and the happiness shines in his eyes, and it’s enough. 

For now, it’s enough. 

Enough of a conversation, enough consent, enough to set aside his guilt for a little longer. 

He’ll have to tell him soon enough. 

Have to explain the rest of it, explain that he’s afraid of getting in too deep. 

It’s ridiculous really – he may have met Barton more than two years ago, but he doesn’t really know him. He’s seen him at a distance, kept tabs on him, been impressed and attracted, but this, this closeness, that’s hardly lasted two days. Silly to want so much, to feel so connect after only two days. 

Barton’s words come back to him, that earnest insistence that he’d been truthful, that he actually believes Phil deserves this. 

Phil doesn’t disagree per se, but he knows Barton had been speaking in general terms, not about himself. 

Not about _them_ specifically. 

As his cousin and his faux-boyfriend heft the tree and start wiggling it through the front door, Phil sets it aside. 

Here, now, they’re both ok with this. 

He’s comfortable with himself and competent in his ability not to do something stupid, like fall in love at Christmas time like one of those horrible Hallmark movies.

For now they’re comfortable with what they’re doing, and soon enough it will be over and they’ll go back to work and to the lives and the roles they understand. 

As he follows the kids into the house, he doesn’t ask himself why he keeps coming back to that point, or who he’s trying to convince by repeating like a broken record.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas friends! A lil present for you all! Reviews are perfectly acceptable presents in return ;)


	6. Chapter 6

It doesn’t take Clint as long to warm up as it should. 

Everyone goes piling back into the house, stomping snow off their boots and hanging mittens and jackets up to dry, and Ellie heads straight to the kitchen with Beth to check on the hot chocolate that’s been brewing in a slow cooker all morning. Everybody else heads for the fireplace in the living room, taking turns toasting themselves in front of the heat while RJ throws his contribution in by dropping to his belly to help maneuver the tree into its stand in the corner. 

Clint though, Clint’s all warmed up from the inside by a squeeze and a cuddle, and yeah, ok, he’s a total sap, sue him. 

He and Phil head into the living room and watch as a bunch of dented old popcorn tins are hauled from a nearby closet, accept warm mugs of delicious, chocolatey goodness as the adults round up the kids and get things directed into some semblance of order. They’re mostly sitting back and sipping their drinks as Kate, America, Seth, Tommy, and Billy start pulling out ornaments from the tins, but Kyle and RJ are pretty into it too, walking circles around the tree as they quickly string up ropes of tiny, colored lights. It’s kinda cool actually, watching everyone get into it. 

Even Phil. 

Once the lights are on the kids are starting to distribute the ornaments. Phil’s gone to his knees on the floor between his nieces, taking a small glass shield into his hands, engraved with the lines and star of Captain America’s emblem. Clint smiles – that's terribly adorkable and also sort of sneaky, cause _SHIELD_ \- but he’s holding the thing with all the care and attention Clint’s seen him give a live grenade. He watches with a happy glow in his chest as Phil gets to his feet and attaches the ornament carefully into the branches, then jolts a little when Seth pushes at his knee. 

“You do this one, up high” he says, handing Clint an ornament that’s clearly handmade, a reindeer’s face and antlers made of popsicle sticks. It’s got googly eyes stuck on and a red button nose, and when he turns it over he sees Seth’s name written in wobbly black marker on the back. 

“How ‘bout I help _you_ do it up high,” he suggests, and the kid’s eyes practically sparkle as he nods enthusiastically. 

Picking Seth up as he stands, he balances the kid on his forearm so he can help him reach up and tuck the reindeer carefully into the tree, right in the middle about a quarter-way down from the top. Seth grins and brushes at the branches a little, getting the ornament set and releasing a pleasant wave of pine, a very Christmassy smell. 

“More?” he asks, and Clint grins, setting him back on his feet. 

“Sure kiddo,” he replies, but Beth tuts. 

“Oh you don’t have to Clint; he’s heavy I know.” 

“What, this guy?” he exclaims exaggeratedly, scooping the little boy back up and benchpressing him up over his head a few times, making him shriek with laughter. “Nah, nothing to him. He’s not eaten nearly enough cookies to be too heavy!” 

“Maybe for you!” she laughs, her husband David booming out a laugh of his own beside her, and Clint smirks, offers her a wink. It’s all subtle cockyness to cover a blush, because he catches Phil watching him out of the corner of his eye, and his gaze seems to be lingering around Clint’s biceps, his bare forearms. 

“Can we have more cookies Grandma?” Seth pipes up, the rest of the kids chorusing their agreement. 

“Oh of course sweeties,” Ellie smiles, already on her feet and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “But only one; we’ll have lunch soon.” 

Seth runs after her to help, Tommy and Billy hot on his heels, leaving room around the tree for some of the adults to get in on the action. Clint takes a step back and an arm wraps around his waist, draws him in against a hard, warm body. 

“He likes you,” Phil says quietly, looking off across the room after his mother and his nephews. "He's pretty shy with new people." 

“I like kids,” Clint explains, then slowly, “Probably because I’m mostly just a kid myself.” 

“You do alright.” 

Clint bites the inside of his cheek, tries not to think about what that might mean. Phil doesn’t elaborate, and it’s not the time to ask, so he focuses on the kids as they come running back in, on the ornaments he gets handed by Seth who’s the only one too short to reach higher than Clint’s waist. They all spend the next hour decorating the Christmas tree, until Ellie Coulson calls a break for lunch and they head into the dining room for chicken salad and a huge veggie tray with hummus and spinach dip. 

When the dishes have been cleared the kids are sent back to the basement for an hour of quiet time, which must be routine because none of them grumble or complain. With all the fresh air and excitement and running around, Clint wouldn’t be surprised if they all drop off for a nap – that's apparently where RJ, Sarah, and little Aiden are headed. Phil is heading to the living room, picking a worn paperback of the one of the shelves that line the hallway, and Clint guesses he’ll follow that lead, but then Ellie Coulson is touching his forearm and offering him a handful of candy canes. 

“Would you mind?” she asks, gesturing toward the tree as they step into the living room. “We used to string popcorn and hang tinsel, but now that we have Lucky and Aiden is still so young, I thought we’d better go with something safer this year.” 

“Sure,” Clint replies with a smile, all charm but also a little touched. “Anywhere, or do you want to tell me?” 

“Oh anywhere is fine sweetie, just not too low where the baby or the dog can reach. I’m going to sit with Robert for a bit; get off my tired old feet.” 

“Not old,” he argues instinctively, because she’s not, not really. Older, sure, in that sweet, little-old-lady way, but she’s still got a crackle and spark in her that Clint thinks she must have certainly passed to her son. 

“Save that silver tongue for my son,” she scolds playfully, wagging her finger at him and pushing him gently in the direction of the tree, Phil close by on the end of the sectional. “It does him good. He’s so much more relaxed with you here, dear.” 

Clint blinks, a bit surprised. 

Coulson had told him of course, told him that it was hard to unwind and relax in this environment with civilians. Clint gets that, and had seen with his own eyes how purposefully Phil had struggled to peel away the layers on the drive up from HQ, to strip off Agent Coulson and just be Ellie’s son. He’s doing better now, actually sunk into the couch a little and reading his book without keeping total situation awareness, but he still seems tense in a way that makes Clint want to give him a massage. 

Like, a professional one, obviously, just to get the stress out of his shoulders. 

Hmm. 

Swallowing back the tightness in his throat, Clint walks over to the tree and starts hanging candy canes, smiling when the scratchy sound of a record starts up behind him, carols playing softly as a calm falls over the room. It’s just them suddenly, Ellie in the nearby study with her husband, who had wandered off in search of a book of his own, and the rest all gone to who knows where. He thinks he saw Nate and Drew disappear into the massive garage, which houses a small weight set, and Kyle had headed upstairs with Aunt Jo. Beth had made noise about a nap without the kids, and it’s finally just him and Phil after what seems like forever. 

It’s nice. 

Stupid how quickly he’s getting used to having the guy close. 

Keeping two of the candy canes back, Clint finishes up his task and flops onto the couch beside his boss, his boyfriend-for-the-holiday. He bumps his shoulder, offers one of the peppermint sticks when Phil glances up, then shrugs when he declines. Unwrapping the candy, he stuffs it into his own mouth instead, scooches down on the couch and sort of just curls up against his side, his head on Coulson’s thigh. It’d be nice, the perfect place for an early afternoon nap, if the man hadn’t gone stiff and awkward the second Clint’s weight had settled against him. 

“Is this a part of it for you?” he asks quietly, deliberately relaxing as he lowers his arm slowly across Clint’s upper chest, nowhere else to put it. “Part of your undercover I mean. Do you need to go deep?” 

“Not really,” Clint shrugs, enjoying the warmth of Phil’s body so near. “I mean sometimes, sure, if it’s a long, crazy op, but I’m more of a distance guy anyway. Are they really going to try to put me on undercover?” 

Phil’s quiet a minute, and when his answer comes it’s hardly more than a murmur. 

“No.” 

“Cool.” 

Squirming a bit, Clint settles further into the cushions, and coincidentally, further into Phil, who very visibly does _not_ squirm. 

Clint bites back the grin that wars with a small spike of concern. For a while he sucks on his candy cane quietly, doing a few tricks with his tongue to see if he can get a rise out of the guy, but he steadfastly ignores him. This gives way to an exaggerated pout, then, when that doesn’t get a reaction either, five minutes of sulky silence. 

Crunching down on the loop of his candy cane, Clint quirks his mouth, thinks over everything that’s happened in the last two days. 

“Does it bother you?” he asks finally, surprised by the question even as it comes out of his mouth. 

Phil pauses his reading, looks up at the tree but pretty obviously doesn’t look at it. 

“I told you this was hard for me,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of it as he goes. “Being... just _being._ But the rest of it is hard too, which is probably stupid. I don’t date, because it’s a difficult thing to manage with the life I lead.” 

“Yeah, I get that.” 

“You’ve dated,” Phil points out, and Clint’s stomach swoops with the idea that he’s been keeping track of Clint’s social calendar. “Regardless. It’s... difficult. And the fact that I’m going to be your handler...” 

“You realize I’m excited about that right?” Clint asks, confused and thinking back to that foggy conversation in the hospital, wondering exactly what impression he’d been throwing. “I _want you_ to be my handler.” 

“And I’m happy to take you on as my asset,” Phil says, calm and sure and so very simple, like it’s pure, plain fact. “But...” 

He trails off again and Clint frowns, twirling his candy cane as he waits for an answer that doesn’t seem like it’s coming. 

“You said that before,” he points out, pointing the peppermint stick at Phil accusingly. _“But_. You never told me what you were worried about. I can’t change what I’m doing wrong if you don’t...” 

"You’re not doing anything wrong,” Phil says, suddenly a little sharper and a little more insistent as he twists in place, turns more toward Clint and brings his hand up to brush over the soft hair at Clint’s temple.

Clint’s heart thumps and he swallows hard, abruptly feeling very, very vulnerable lying here, looking up into those kind blue eyes he’d been dreaming about on-and-off for the last two years.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Phil insists, sweeping his thumb over Clint’s cheek pointedly. “I am.”

“Woah, hey,” Clint practically yelps, using all of his considerable self-control to keep from _actually_ shouting as Phil neatly extracts himself from underneath Clint’s prone form and gets to his feet. “Phil!”

He’s not running.

If what Clint thinks is happening is really happening, he has to give him a hell of a lot of credit for that.

To be fair Clint’s blocking his retreat by standing bodily in front of him, one hand light on Phil’s wrist, but still...

He’s not panicking.

“Tell me what’s happening right now,” he pleads, and Coulson swallows as his eyes dart away. “Phil please.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes nonsensically. “I shouldn’t have invited you up here. You have to understand, I didn’t realize I would...”

“I like you.”

Phil stumbles to a halt, his gaze snapping back to meet Clint’s as a stunned expression comes down over his face.

“You...”

“I was telling the truth,” Clint explains quickly, remembering the day they’d met in the heat and the rain on top of that shabby, broken-down building thousands of miles from home. “I liked you the day I met you. You were competent and professional and an incredible shot, but you were... kind, too. And really, really sexy in that suit and aviators. I guess I can be man enough to admit to a crush, but it seems like maybe you...”

“I’m going to be your direct superior,” Coulson says, his tone all Senior Agent stiff. “You have to be able to trust me – you _deserve_ that from me.”

“Are you telling me right now that I can’t?”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” he frowns, and Clint wants more than anything to reach up and smooth that little wrinkle between his eyes away, his heart pounding in his chest.

Truth be told he’s trying really hard not to laugh, because he’s suddenly got a pretty good idea what’s going on and it’s kind of awesome.

“I just _meant,”_ Phil says insistently, “That it doesn’t matter that I like you. I never meant to let it get away from me like it’s doing now. That’s not fair. I can put it aside, of course – I _will_ put it aside – but that’s what’s been so difficult about this. That’s why I’ve been so... awkward. But I’ll handle it, Clint, I promise, you’ve been doing exactly what I’ve asked you to do.”

“You... you like me?”

It’s a bit of a shock.

Sure, Clint had kinda stepped up to the plate here and taken a chance, but it had been pretty easy to do when he figured the worst he would get out of it was a formal let-down and some awkward professionalism for a few days. It wasn’t really that big a leap – it's not like there are years of friendship at risk here – but it’s still kind of incredible to realize that he had been right, that Phil was being kinda weird because he really _does_ like Clint back.

For his part, Phil just stares at him with his jaw slightly dropped, like he’s shocked that that’s all Clint’s taken from his whole speech.

This time Clint does laugh, a happy, helpless little sound.

“You do realize I just told you l liked you too right?” he points out, but Phil’s frown widens and something nervous wriggles in the pit of Clint’s belly. “Phil?”

“I... _why?”_

“You... you’re kidding right?”

Awkward silence.

Oh god – he’s _not_ kidding.

“You really buy into your own press don’t you boss,” Clint sighs, pulling Phil in against his chest and wrapping his arms around the guy’s shoulders, pressing their cheeks together.

Phil goes quietly, and Clint wonders if that more than anything says something important about his headspace. His arms come up slow and loop around Clint’s waist, and everything about his posture and his hesitancy feels like a question, like he’s trying to figure this out. That’s ok. Clint’s enjoying this, and it seems like maybe Phil’s enjoying it a little bit too, now that he’s leaning into it and letting Clint take just a tiny bit of his weight...

_“Awww!”_

They practically spring apart, startled by Beth’s loud cooing and finding nearly half the family crowding back into the living room, quiet time over. Ellie Coulson is standing behind her daughter with her hands clasped together, eyes sparkling, staring at the two of them like they’re the cutest thing she’s ever seen. Beth has a teasing grin on her face and her brother RJ is standing behind her, biting his lip and looking like he’s trying not to snicker.

Clint shoots Phil a raised eyebrow but he looks just as confused.

“What?” he asks warily, and Clint knows exactly how he feels because he feels like he’s been set-up somehow and come on, they were having a moment here.

“Heads up, big brother,” RJ grins, jerking his thumb toward the ceiling, and Clint’s head snaps up so hard he feels his neck crack.

There’s something hanging in the doorway above their heads, a small sprig of green and silver twined through with red ribbon, and he’s seen that somewhere before hasn’t he?

He’s pretty sure that was on his last Organic Poisons test – mistletoe right?

Wait...

Aw, crap.

**AVAVA**

Phil’s heart pounds double-time in his chest, his mouth dry as he stares at the little sprig of mistletoe over his head. Oh he’s going to _kill_ Beth, because he knows this is her doing somehow, but he’s angry with himself as well. He’s a Senior Agent of SHIELD, he teaches entire _courses_ on situational awareness every year – he never should’ve allowed himself to be stopped under any doorway, for any reason knowing his family. 

He should’ve expected this. 

But then how could he? 

To say that it was unplanned, him bringing his new asset home for Christmas to pretend to be his boyfriend, is already the understatement of the century. 

If someone had told him that he would also end up losing control of the crush he’d developed chasing a young vigilante Hawkeye across the globe he would have scoffed them into shamed silence. 

If he’d been told that said archer would confess a similar crush right back, he might’ve keeled over dead. 

In fact, it feels kind of like he has died, standing here with half his family watching on, expecting something that doesn’t mean half as much to them as it does to him or Clint. 

The worst part is, with what had just been said between them, he thinks they might have gotten there on their own. 

His mind is still reeling, and he doesn’t really understand the how or the why, but Clint has said he liked him back and now... 

“We don’t... really do public displays of affection...” Clint says slowly, obviously hesitant, and Phil realizes he’s still standing there with something a little bit like horror on his face. 

It’s an interesting sensation, knowing with calm certainty that Clint is lying through his teeth. That he’s saying what he’s saying not to back out of anything, but because he can tell Phil’s brain is still stupidly, idiotically scrambling to catch up. That he’s giving _Phil_ the out if he wants it. 

But he really, really doesn’t. 

He only wishes his whole family... 

As he finally tunes back in, he hears RJ laughing, hears Beth groaning and joshing Clint playfully, and it’s not so bad really because his mother is shushing them both and he knows his brother and his sister both care about him, really care. 

Then Nate and Drew snicker from their positions propping up the door jam, all slumped against the walls where the living room branches out to the stairwell and he feels irritation flood through his entire system like hot needles. 

“Can’t really blame him, can you,” one remarks snidely, while the other mutters about aging and receding hairlines, and Phil’s hands ball into fists, all the old insecurity of childhood swelling up in his chest. 

Beside him Clint makes an unimpressed scoffing sound, and before Phil can even open his mouth, he’s being spun around to face him and kissed to within an inch of his life. 

From somewhere far away he can hear cheering a wolf whistles, remembers that his mother is watching this all happen. Shockingly, he finds that he doesn’t care in the least. Clint’s arms – as impressive as they’ve always looked – are wrapped snugly around him, supporting him around the waist and shoulders as he dips him back just enough to throw off his balance, his mouth firm and warm and insistent. The kiss rolls over him like a slow, warm wave, and there’s something all-encompassing about Clint’s sincerity, something sweet in about his bravery. Only the dim awareness of their audience keeps Phil from deepening the kiss to something entirely inappropriate. 

They pull apart slowly, Phil’s heart pounding in his chest, and Clint lets out a little huff like his breath’s all been stolen. A smile is curling the corner of his mouth and he looks... stunned, and that more than anything making makes Phil want to kiss him again. 

“Hi,” Clint murmurs, and Phil smiles back at him, his hands sliding up Clint’s ribs from his hips of their own volition. 

“Hi.” 

He can hear his mother tittering, shooing the rest of the family through the room and on to wherever they’re headed next, but he can’t seem to tear himself away from the man in front of them. Clint Barton, the Amazing Hawkeye, eight years his junior and an all-around amazing man, is standing in front of him telling him that this is real, that he’s not just playing his role, and that’s more than a little staggering. Phil knows his own strengths, he does, but he knows his weaknesses too, and the man in front of him... 

Well, in a way he _is_ out of Phil’s league, no matter what he says. 

In another, he’s rather his perfect match. 

He’d looked at Phil’s awkwardness and ridiculousness and uncertainty and just bulldozed right through it – but then, that _does_ sound like Hawkeye. 

Clint cocks a curious eyebrow at him, his eyes all blue and green and gold, hopeful and cautious, and Phil can only smile back. Nodding slowly, Clint backs up, dropping his hands reluctantly so that they can take a step back from each other, come down from the spark and intensity of what had just happened. Coincidentally that takes them out from under the mistletoe as well, which Phil is oddly grateful for. 

“Later,” he says quietly, half question and half declaration, and Clint smiles. 

“Later,” he agrees with a firm nod, and everything about him seems more calm, more certain that Phil is. 

It’s a new experience for him, and one he doesn’t altogether hate. Hell, just a few minutes ago he was worried that he was taking advantage of an asset, that a simple misunderstanding or an unintentional slip was looming near, ready to ruin everything they had coming. 

Because he likes Clint, but he’d rather be his handler and help him on to the amazing career headed for than date him, if he can’t have both. 

It’s all a little silly, he knows that. They’re making a big deal out of this, like they’re so perfect for each other and this is all so amazing and incredible, when in reality they don’t know all that much about each other, don’t know how they’ll fit... 

The crazy part is it doesn’t feel that way. 

Maybe Phil’s at an advantage here, having been hunting Clint for so long, having devoured every shred and scrap of information he could find and then closely following his case file as he’d progressed through SHIELD. Maybe Clint doesn’t feel it as much as he does. But he’d brought it up on his own, said he’d felt this way long before he’d come home with Phil for Christmas, and that’s good. 

So. 

He’ll just be pleasantly surprised then, like he’s been hit on at a bar, unexpected but sincere. 

He can go into this the way one would go into any relationship, with attraction and interest being enough to make a start. 

The rest comes later after all, when you start talking and dating and learning about each other – and what’s to say that with their limited history and unorthodox introduction they can’t do that? They are new to each other in this way, the press of Clint’s mouth against his own exciting and sweetly foreign, and if it doesn’t work out, if they’re not as well matched as he suspects they are, then they can just move on like anyone else. 

As he follows Clint into the kitchen after his family, he thinks about his past, his future, how he’s living his life in this very moment, and he hopes with a sudden, painful clarity that whatever this thing is sparking between them won’t burn out in a flash of heat and fire.


	7. Chapter 7

Climbing the stairs to bed that night is an interesting experience in opposites. Anticipation and dread war in Clint’s stomach, a fearful weight and a light, bouncing, elastic excitement that makes him grateful that he’d passed on after-dinner fruit cake. Phil’s ahead of him, fantastic ass several steps above and at the perfect height to oggle, but he doesn’t feel as drawn to it as he normally does. 

He’s definitely nervous. 

A part of him is ridiculously proud of himself. He’d handled things really, really well back there this afternoon, owning up to what was going on on his end of things and not squealing like a girl when he found out that Phil felt the same way. He was also pretty proud that he hadn’t jumped the gun, had given Phil an out when he found himself standing under the mistletoe with the perfect excuse to kiss the guy for real. As much as he’d wanted to, he wasn’t a creep. 

He’d gotten his chance anyway. 

Phil had made no protest, and Clint wasn’t about to let the jackass cousins think that he wasn’t exactly as gone on Phil as he really is. 

He’d... maybe gotten a little carried away. 

It had started out pretty innocent, ok? 

He just wanted to prove a point. 

Sure, maybe Phil puts up that ever-man front he does so well with the family, but it’s hardly his fault they believe it. He may not be conventionally attractive, and Clint’s heart broke just a little bit when Phil had asked that simple question - _why?_ \- but he’s got great shoulders and gorgeous eyes and strong, capable hands, to say nothing of the aforementioned spectacular ass. To say even less about the things he can do, the way he handles himself and the way he treats other people... 

Yeah, he’d definitely gotten carried away. 

As soon as their lips had touched all thoughts of the idiot cousins had gone out the window, which thank god, but still... 

He feels like maybe it was a little much. 

It felt like it was a little much, which was weird, cause there wasn’t even any tongue involved, but he can _still_ feel... 

“You freaking out?” 

Blinking, Clint nearly walks right into Phil at the end of the hallway, where he’s waiting at the open door of their room. There’s a sort of sad, resigned expression lingering at the corners of his mouth, and Clint immediately wants to kiss it away, but he thinks maybe this time it’s better to use his words. 

“Um, a little?” he hedges, immediately regretting it. “I mean, not about what I said – I wasn’t lying – but...” 

“Let’s get ready for bed.” 

Clint nearly swallows his tongue, curses himself silently as he follows Phil into the bedroom and closes the door, because what his brain is thinking right now? Definitely not what Phil had meant. 

It’s ok. 

They share a bathroom with Beth and her husband, and they’re apparently a pair of those gross morning-people, so he and Phil have the shower to themselves in the evenings. Like, themselves separately, obviously, and Clint doesn’t think about wanting to join him as Phil takes first turn. He checks his emails on his phone and plays some Angry Birds while he waits, and blushes when Phil comes out damp and pink dressed in the ARMY rangers shirt he’d had on the night before. 

Without a word he makes his escape and doesn’t linger under the hot water for _any reason,_ thanks very much, let alone because he’s scared. 

_‘Stupid,’_ he thinks as he brushes his teeth and stares at himself aggressively in the mirror. 

He hasn’t messed anything up yet – there's nothing there to risk quite yet. 

It’s just that he can feel potential in the spark that crackles between them, and he really, really wants to give that a chance. 

Squaring his shoulders, he heads back into the bedroom and finds Phil propped up against the headboard on his phone, just like he had been. 

“Hi,” he says as Clint settles onto the mattress, putting his phone aside and turning to face him, so they’re facing each other criss-cross. 

“Hi,” Clint parrots back, and it feels stupid and silly but they’ve both got a smile on their face. “So. It’s later...” 

“It is,” Phil agreed, nodding his head, and looking far too serious and solemn, like Agent Coulson instead of Phil. “I’d like you to start, if you don’t mind. Not because...” 

“I know why you want me to start,” Clint says, reaching out and taking Phil’s hand to squeeze his fingers quickly. “And I think that’s one of the things we should talk about ok?” 

Phil makes a sort of ‘carry on’ gesture, but Clint can see the tension in his shoulders. 

“Back in the hospital,” he starts slowly, “You asked me if another handler had... pressured me. I was telling the truth when I said that had never been a problem in SHIELD. But it has before, and I think that’s probably pretty obvious to somebody like you, somebody who cares enough to see it.” 

Phil shifts on the bed and looks uncomfortable, but for all the anxiety Clint had felt at the time, he’s comfortable talking about it here, now. 

“I _was_ nervous,” he explains, “And I probably did tense up. I’ve been through that before – you've read my file – but I’m all grown up now and I can finally take care of myself. It’s weird, I’m not... _worried_ about that part? But ever since you recruited me there’s been something about you and I really didn’t want you to be that guy.” 

“I’m not,” Phil says, quick and insistent like he can’t help himself, and Clint grins. 

“I know,” he reassures, “And to be honest I really didn’t think you were then. But ever since we started this you’ve done everything – literally Phil, _everything_ – to make sure I’m comfortable. That things go the way I want or need them to go. If I'm right, you wanted me to start so that I wasn’t pressured or influenced in any way and I want you to know right now that I don’t feel like you’re doing that. I don’t feel like you have done in the past and I don’t think you will in the future.” 

Phil takes a breath, deep enough that his shoulders rise and fall, almost a sigh. 

“Ok,” he murmurs, eyes moving from left to right like he’s thinking hard before they come up and meet Clint’s. “I believe that. I believe you’re being honest with me, and I believe that I wouldn’t do something like that. But if we do this, if we even talk about doing this, I need all those safeguards in place, ok?” 

“I get that,” Clint agrees easily, inordinately pleased that Phil believes him when he talks. “I know about the frat policy for juniors – is it any different for Senior Agents?” 

“A bit,” Phil replies, wobbling a hand in the air. “We still have to fill out the same paperwork if we’re working together, which we will be, and there’s an added batch of forms for people fraternizing above and below their security level. Because I’m going to be your handler, we’ll have a secondary contact point within HR, so that you can make complaints or file grievances without me standing in the way. That person will also be responsible for reviewing our missions outcomes and after-action reports so that they can step in and reassign any and all persons involved in someone becomes compromised.” 

“So not that different.” 

“No, not that different.” 

“Cool. So can we agree that that part is mutually understood and not an issue right now?” 

Phil looks at him closely, seems to consider carefully, and while he _does_ get it Clint’s heart still thumps extra hard. 

“Yes, I think we can agree on that.” 

Blowing out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Clint laughs and flops over onto his back with his feet up by the pillows. 

“Ok, so I felt like that was gonna be the worst part and it went a lot better than I was expecting,” he confesses, and down near his knees Phil chuckles. “What now?” 

“I’m not sure,” Phil admits. “You told me you were interested in dating me, and... why. I feel like it’s only fair I should tell you.” 

“Please, do tell Agent Coulson,” Clint purrs, turning his head to send Phil a sly grin. “Don’t let me stop you from stroking my ego.” 

“You weren’t stroking my ego.” 

Clint blinks, stunned by the amount of emotion simmering under the surface of that statement. Phil’s looking at him dead on, holding his gaze, and he seems stunned and grateful and who-knows-what about that, but he seems like he’s accepted it too. 

Licking his lips, mouth dry, Clint shakes his head. 

“No, I wasn’t.” 

“You’re bright,” Phil says, the change in topic so sudden Clint’s brain has to scramble to catch up. “Smart. Street-smart, but book-smart too, even if you don’t think you are. You’re one of the best natural strategists I’ve ever seen, and I’d love to put you into some command courses once we have the Strike Team up and running. You’re good at what you do, and you look good doing it.” 

Clint’s cheeks are warm and he swallows hard, watching Phil watch him. 

“You’re a good man,” he says quietly. “The world’s knocked you down so many times – it would have been easy for you to turn the other way. But you didn’t. Every time, you picked yourself back up and made yourself better, made yourself stronger.” 

Phil blinks, seems to shock himself out of what he’s been saying as he shrugs, shakes his head. 

“We both know a lot about each other from what we were,” he says, and Clint can see him very carefully trying to reel everything back in where it’s safe and a little less vulnerable. “That doesn’t mean we know each other now, or how we’ll be together.” 

“Which moves us on to point number two,” Clint argues with an easy shrug of his own. “I’m really, really glad you brought me up here.” 

“What?” 

“Not just for the obvious reasons,” he continues, hurrying to explain away the confusion on Phil’s face and get to the heart of the matter. “I mean, it’s been awesome. Your family’s great and it’s really nice to be able to have this you know, a real Christmas? But it seems like maybe it’s kind of a good test run.” 

“How do you mean?” Phil asks, but there’s understanding slowly crossing his face and Clint’s pretty sure this is going to work. 

“Well, we’re already pretending I’m your boyfriend,” he explains. “What if we just stop pretending? Do things like we _are_ boyfriends?” 

“A trial run,” Phil says slowly, nodding his head. 

“Gives us a chance to do all the things boyfriends would do and see how it feels, see how it works between us,” Clint goes on. “We have till, what? Sunday before we have to go back? That’s plenty of time to find out if there’s anything to this.” 

Still lying on his back, he reaches out and traces the tip of his finger from Phil’s thigh to his knee, making sure the guy knows exactly what Clint’s talking about; the crackle, the heat. 

“If it burns out,” he murmurs, trying not to think about the possibility cause the idea kinda sucks, “If it burns out then we can both go back to SHIELD when Christmas is over like nothing changed.” 

“What happens in Maine stays in Maine,” Phil parrots back at him, and Clint offers him half a grin. 

“Exactly.” 

“I like that idea.” 

“Wait, really?” Clint blurts, startled but pleasantly surprised that it had been that easy. 

“I told you, you’re a good strategist Clint,” Phil says, blatantly rolling his eyes. “It’s a good plan.” 

“Soooo... we’re doing it?” 

“I’d like to see where this could go, yes.” 

Clint stares at him a minute, stunned by this insane turn of events that he never saw coming, then cheers and does a fist-pump toward the foot of the bed. 

“Yes!” 

A pillow hits him hard in the face seconds later, but it doesn’t knock the grin off so hah! 

Rolling upright, Clint watches as Phil gets up and turns down the quilt, preparing to climb underneath. 

“So,” he says, waggling his eyebrows a moment later when Phil’s back in the bed, “If we were really boyfriends... how much do you think I’d get away with knowing your sister’s next door?” 

“A kiss,” Phil says sternly as he reaches over and clicks of the lamp, like that’s some kind of letdown. “And some spooning if you were lucky.” 

“Oh, I plan to get lucky,” Clint growls, leaning forward in the dark to prop himself up over his brand-new, shiny boyfriend. “Even if I have to get you back under that stupid mistletoe to do it.”

**AVAVA**

For the second time in as many days, Phil wakes up with Clint Barton curled over and around him, practically on top of him, sprawled all along his back and his side. He’s miles of warm bare skin, an arm snug around Phil’s waist and a leg thrown over his thigh, and Phil can feel him breathing against the nape of his neck. He should feel smothered, suffocated, at the very least held down and unable to reach freely for a weapon, but instead he feels...

God, he feels amazing. 

It’s been so long since he’s slept with someone like this, someone he trusts enough to lay beside, someone that he cares for enough to touch. 

They’d fallen asleep facing each other the night before, just breathing quietly in the dark. Kissing, soft and sweet and chaste despite Clint’s seductive growl and wicked promise. Phil had been wound like a top for the first ten minutes, waiting for Clint to get sneaky and try for some heavy petting despite the fact that they were surrounded by his family and under his mother’s roof, wanting to do the same thing himself, but Clint never pushes. 

It’s oddly sweet, and he doesn’t think for a minute that Clint won’t try to jump him the moment they’re back home. 

He can safely say he’s looking forward to that. 

As pleasant as it sounds to spend the morning snuggling with his new and unexpected partner, Phil decides it’s probably best to get out of bed before he lets himself get worked up and carried away. Allowing himself one more minute of lying loose and relaxed in Clint’s arms, he bites back a sigh and gives Clint’s hand a squeeze before rolling out from beneath his arm. 

“Come back,” the archer mumbles, all rumpled blonde hair as he immediately turns onto his stomach and wraps his arms around the pillow under his head, the better to hide his face from the sunlight. “ ‘S too early.” 

Phil strokes his hand over the top of Clint’s head and then ends up trailing his fingertips slowly dover the muscles of his shoulder and upper arm for good measure. Clint squirms and his hips hitch against the bed, and then he turns his face out of the pillow to sigh heavily and cast Phil a narrow-eyed look. 

“Ok, so now I’m up,” he grumps, and Phil snorts a laugh. 

Leaning down, he tucks his fingers under Clint’s chin, tugs him up, and kisses him long and slow on the mouth. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, and he can feel Clint smile against his lips. 

“Morning.” 

Phil lets him go, takes a step back from the bed, because if he doesn’t, he’ll stand there staring at Clint like a dope all morning, or worse, give in to the temptation to climb back into bed. 

Grumbling under his breath, Clint pushes himself upright, letting the blankets fall around his hips. He immediately sucks in a gasp, goosebumps breaking out over his arms and bare chest, and jerks the blankets back up around him like a robe. 

“It’s freezing in here!” he yelps, an exaggeration but not something that Phil hadn’t noticed. “What happened?” 

“I think it snowed,” he replies, grabbing his phone off the side table to check the weather before turning toward the windows and drawing back a curtain. 

“Oh wow!” 

Half a nanosecond later Clint’s standing right beside him, hands and face pressed against the glass as he stares out in childlike wonder, chill forgotten. 

“Look at all of it!” he marvels, grinning from ear to ear. “Phil, there’s gotta be a foot of snow out there!” 

“Which means sledding and snowball fights,” he agrees, moving to the dresser to pull out some warm clothes. “Get dressed, or we’ll be the last ones picked for teams.” 

A yip of excitement is all the response he gets, but it’s more than enough. 

Less than a half hour later, he, Clint, and all the kids are outside drawing off battle lines, preparing for all-out war. Having had homemade granola bars and fruit pressed into their hands on the way out the door, they’ve been dressed and fueled for a snowball fight of epic proportions, and with Kyle, RJ, and the twins all in on the fun, it’s likely to be a far more vicious skirmish than your typical children’s snowball fight. 

Kate and America square off, immediately choosing sides. To Phil’s amusement Kate picks him first after she wins the rock-paper-scissors, and America goes for Nate. He has to make all kinds of promises to his niece and team captain to get her to pick Clint next over Drew, because as obnoxious as the twins are, everyone knows they play dirty when it comes to anything competitive. They’re good choices, but all it takes is Phil reminding Kate that Clint was in the circus as a marksman to get her to cave. 

“What did you tell her?” Clint asks once he’s bounded over, obviously noticing the way Kate is frowning at the twins, who’ve both sided up with America. 

“I just reminded her of your callsign,” Phil replies with a wink, and Clint’s grin broadens. 

He peers across the snow, sizing up the competition as Nate and Drew shove each other and make a lot of unnecessary noise. They get Kyle on their team while America gets RJ, and the three little boys just kind of pick their own. Seth drifts toward Clint and Phil, and while Kate and America are determining the rules Phil watches with a soft, warm, happy feeling as Clint scoops his nephew up onto his shoulders. 

“First team to capture the other team’s flag wins!” America determines loudly, waving the two extra scarves she’s commandeered from Phil’s mother. “If you get hit by a snowball you have to count to ten before you can get up again!” 

“Each team has five minutes to set up base camp!” Kate hollers, accepting a scarf from America. “Starting... NOW!” 

The yard explodes into chaos as both teams separate, heading for opposite ends of the yard. America’s team takes refuge in the edge of the trees since Kate has strategically positioned herself closer to the shed that houses the Coulson yard equipment, and they immediately fall-to creating short walls of snow and lining up sleds and saucers to be used as shields. Team Captains affix their flags where they’re accessible but easily defensible, the game more fun because it’s fair, and the other members start packing snow. 

“Think you can make me some good snowballs buddy?” Clint asks, setting Seth down behind the snow wall quickly being constructed by Kyle. 

Seth nods and starts pulling snow toward him, and Phil sits beside him to do the same, quickly loading up a spare toboggan with extra ammunition. 

“What’s our plan Uncle Phil?” Kate asks, dropping down beside them and getting to work. 

“Seth’s the smallest, and the quietest,” he says, tugging the pompom on the little boy’s hat. “Think you can steal their flag if we cover you?” 

“I can do it!” Seth says determinedly, gap-toothed grin wide. 

“Perfect!” Kate smiles, “But we’ve still gotta deal with Uncle Nate and Uncle Drew.” 

“They’re pretty well back in the trees,” Kyle calls, reinforcing the edges of his snow wall. “They’re gonna be tough to hit Captain!” 

Kate scowls, but Clint’s laughing. 

“Let me worry about those two, boss,” he says, tossing Kate a wink. “I got this. Just keep me in snowballs and I’ll clear a path for our spy.” 

Seth giggles, but Kate grins, offers Clint a mittened handshake. 

“Deal.” 

“Time’s up!” someone hollers from across the yard, and not two seconds later all hell breaks loose. 

Time blurs after that. 

It’s the nicest kind of adrenaline rush, one that gets his heart pumping and his fingers tingling and makes him want to move, all without the threat of life and death and world-ending to go along with it. Kids laugh and shriek, Lucky barks, and snow bursts wet and cold around him like tiny, harmless hand grenades. 

Kate wasn’t wrong – the twins are a problem. For all that they’re obnoxious, they work well together and they’re good at this game because it’s something they can win. Kyle and Kate do their best to deal with the rest of America’s team while driving them away from their flag, and Clint, well, Clint does what he does best. 

He never misses. 

“Gotcha!” he mutters as he lands a snowball right in Drew’s face where he peeks out around a tree. 

“Nice shot Hawkeye.” 

Clint laughs, but when he turns to look at Phil who’s been diligently preparing spare snowballs while deflecting hits with a bright green saucer, he’s smiling from ear to ear, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling. He can’t help himself; he leans forward and drags Clint in for a long kiss, only to be rewarded with a wet snowball to the back of the head. 

“Hah! Gotcha Uncle Phil!” America shouts, and Phil grabs at his head, keeling over into the snow with a groan. 

“Vengeance!” Clint hollers back, launching a volley of snowballs, and America, Tommy, and Teddy all shriek, ducking for cover. 

“Come on baby, don’t you die on me now!” Clint says, overly dramatic and tearful, and because his ten seconds are over Phil springs back up, grabbing the saucer in one hand and Seth in the other. 

“Cover me!” he demands, and then he’s jumping over the snow wall they’re barricaded behind and sprinting across the yard. 

Dropping into a crouch, he raises the sled to shield himself and his nephew from the few errant snowballs getting through Clint’s onslaught and turns to him with a very serious face. 

“Ready?” he asks, and Seth nods. 

Peeking over the edge of his shield, he waits until Nate and Drew both go down with another snowball to the face and gives Seth a push forward. 

“Go!” 

It deserves theme music, it really does. 

Slow-mo even. 

Seth takes off like a shot and the rest of the team charges forward behind him, Kyle and Clint and Kate all doing their level best to distract from the little boy headed for flag whipping back and forth in the wind. Out the corner of his eye Phil sees Nate grimace and make a break for their own flag, but Clint takes him down quick and easy with a snowball lobbed over his shoulder. America shrieks and tackles Clint into the snow, obviously recognizing the threat, and next thing he knows everything’s dissolved into pandemonium, all respect for rules and regulations disappearing as Seth snatches down America’s flag with a triumphant shout. 

Kate tackles him. 

Rather, he lets Kate tackle him, until she starts stuffing snow down the collar of his jacket and then he fights back. Teddy helps, and Tommy and Seth have dogpiled onto Clint while RJ and Kyle use a sled to dump a mountain of snow onto Drew’s head. It’s all laughter and barks and excited shouts as Lucky dashes around snapping at falling snowflakes and kids scatter left and right to escape their uncles’ wrath, and it’s home and family and Christmas and wonderful. 

He’s watching Clint crawl out from under the pile when David steps out onto the porch and hollers to Kate to grab a sled. The kids immediately lunge for the toboggans, picking out their favorites and heading for the truck. With a bum knee David can’t get too rambunctious these days, so he’d skipped the snowball fight, but he always volunteers to take the kids up the trail a ways to one of the bigger hills on the property, perfect for sledding. 

“Having fun?” he asks as he reaches a hand down to haul Clint to his feet. 

“So much,” Clint grins back. “What next?” 

“You did alright with the kids,” Drew cuts in, and Clint cocks an eyebrow, but it’s Nate who finishes the sentence, pulling a hockey stick out of the shed. 

“Think you can keep up with the adults?” 

Phil bites back a grin, but Clint doesn’t even bother to try.


	8. Chapter 8

“I thought you said you’ve never skated before!” Beth hollers as Clint goes spinning smoothly past her around the edge of the iced-over lake. 

Backward. 

On one foot. 

“Haven’t,” he laughs, coming to a sharp stop beside her, spraying her and Phil with a little burst of sleet. “But after learning the tightrope what’s a little ice skating?” 

Beth laughs, her cheeks pink and her eyes sparkling. Grabbing a hockey stick from her brother, she pushes it into Clint’s hands and raises her voice to shout across the ice. 

“Clint’s on my team!” 

Nate and Drew both grumble and Clint tries not to snicker, cause those two have no idea what they’re in for. Even if ice hockey is the family sport, Clint’s never met a game of aim that he hasn’t been able to master. He, Phil, Beth, and Kyle skate a few laps, passing the small black puck back and forth across the ice until Clint’s gotten the hang of the stick, then Kyle heads to the goal and they square off against the twins, who’ve partnered up with RJ and his wife Sarah, who’d left little Aiden with his grandmother in order to join in. 

Phil takes the puck-drop against his brother and immediately snatches it away, zipping across the lake toward the homemade net on the other side. Clint almost forgets that he’s supposed to be playing he’s so distracted with watching, but Kyle shoulder checks him with a grin and gets him moving again. 

It’s a rough game. 

Clint understands why the kids don’t play. 

No one’s necessarily going out of their way to cause injury (they definitely are), but there’s a serious competitiveness that comes out in all of them, not just Nate and Drew. Beth is unexpectedly aggressive, and speedy enough to skate circles around both her brothers, and she and Sarah seem to do a little tag-teaming even though they’re on opposing sides. The competition between Phil and RJ is a lot friendlier, but still plenty strong enough to be easily seen, and Clint gets a few good laughs out of the jokes and friendly ribbing that pass between them. 

He likes ice hockey. 

He’s good at it – his natural balance and flexibility do him enormous favors and once he figures out how the puck and the curved stick work in concert it’s easy to start sinking goals, but he likes the environment too, the atmosphere on the lake. There’s a humming electricity about it that comes from the competition, but there’s something bigger underneath it too, the tradition that the game has for this family. He can see it in the way Beth and Phil pass the puck, the way Sarah and RJ set each other up for shots, the lovingly shouted insults from Kyle that feel worn and familiar around the edges. 

It’s awesome. 

Even more awesome that he gets to help absolutely cream the twins, who he has to admit are pretty good. As the game amps up and Clint helps his team start pulling away on the score, they get rougher and rougher, throwing elbows and shoulder checks like they think they can knock him on his ass, and it’s almost comical how hard they try. Too bad for them he’s Hawkeye, and an Agent of SHIELD, well acquainted with pain and not nearly as hesitant to fight back as someone else might be. 

He gives as good as he gets, and by the time the game is called has scored about, oh, fourteen shots to the other team’s four. 

“Your boy’s a shark Phil,” Sarah calls with a smile as they skate over to the edge of the lake and drop down onto the little hand-carved benches there to swap their skates for boots. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you set us up.” 

“I told you I was a marksman,” Clint points out, and Sarah laughs. 

“Yeah, who knew growing up in a circus could translate so well,” Kyle chuckles, clapping Clint on the shoulder. “I won’t be playing pool with you anytime soon.” 

“Smart move,” Phil advises, and this time everyone laughs except the twins, who scowl and stalk off toward the house. 

“Those two are such grouches,” Beth observes, sticking her tongue out at their retreating forms. “Don’t worry about them Clint – they're just mad you beat them at hockey.” 

“Yeah, the rest of us aren’t so sensitive,” RJ snorts. “Plus you’re willing to put up with our brother, so you must be an alright guy.” 

“Thanks,” Phil huffs, rolling his eyes, but Clint just smiles and wraps an arm around his waist, pulls him close. 

“Pretty sure it’s the other way around actually,” he says, and Phil smiles back, staring at him for a long, long time. 

“Sap, gross,” RJ remarks, earning himself a punch in the arm from his wife, whom he immediately sweeps up for a kiss. 

The group laughs and picks up their gear, heading back toward the house. As they start packing their sticks and skates away into the shed, the rumble of a truck announces the kids’ return, and they all come piling up to stash their sleds and saucers away, demanding to know who won the hockey game. Clint gets a few wet, frigid high-fives, and then they’re all tromping back up to the porch and funneling into the house where Ellie Coulson is waiting with towels fresh from the dryer and the promise of hot tomato soup and grilled cheeses as soon as everyone has changed and dried off. 

Clint follows Phil upstairs and pulls him in for a kiss as soon as the door has closed behind them. It’s a real kiss this time, right on the mouth with their bodies all pressed together, and he can feel Phil’s lips curve in a smile against his own when he tries for a little tongue. He practically whimpers when Phil opens up and lets him in, and then suddenly it’s a whole new thing a lot bigger and a lot hotter and a lot hungrier than he was expecting. Hands gripping tight, he pushes forward for more, moaning into the kiss when Phil nibbles the corner of his mouth. 

“Nicely done out there,” he murmurs against his lips when they break for air, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. “The twins haven’t lost a hockey game in years – we usually have to split them up.” 

“I’m just waiting for one of them to whip it out so we can measure,” Clint huffs, a ghost of a laugh as his heartbeat slows back to normal. “But it was totally worth it.” 

“Can’t lose your circus street-cred now,” Phil agrees, mock-serious, but his eyes are sparkling as they both straighten up and take a step back, reluctantly letting go of each other’s damp, chilly clothes. 

Clint’s pretty sure he can see steam coming off of both of them. 

“They’re mean to you,” he says simply, turning away to tug off his wet sweatshirt and slingshot it toward the hamper. “You don’t deserve it.” 

No response. 

Frowning, Clint turns back, ready to defend some more of Phil’s honor, even to the man himself, but instead of looking quietly miserable or resigned he’s watching the play of muscle in Clint’s shoulders, and now that he’s turned around, his chest. 

“See something you like Agent Coulson?” he asks, a dark, quiet purr as he subtlety flexes his upper arms. 

“I always have,” Phil replies, meeting Clint’s gaze and holding it long and hard. “Even before I saw you naked.” 

Startled, Clint barks a laugh. 

“You’ve never seen me naked,” he accuses with a grin, grabbing a dry pair of jeans and some clean underwear. 

“I was in Boca for the Uranium sting last year.” 

Blinking, horrified, because Clint got _covered_ in bright orange toxic goop in Boca, he swallows hard and pastes on a grin. 

“Well then I guess there’s no reason to preserve some of the magic then,” he says cockily, and lets his wet jeans drop to the floor. 

Phil looks him up and down, a nice, slow perusal that lingers around the waistband of the damp boxers clinging to his skin, then smirks. 

“Maybe for you,” he counters, slinging a pair of sweats over his shoulder and stepping into the bathroom. 

Clint grins, ducks his head and moves to push his boxers off. 

He didn’t expect this – this lightness, this play. 

Maybe it’s all the Christmas-time treats, the kids and the games and the fun. 

“Oh and Clint?” 

Startled, he pulls underwear back up his ass and whips around, finds Phil sticking his head out through the crack in the door and looking him over again like he’s something Phil wants to eat. 

“I wouldn’t worry,” he explains with a wicked glint in his eye. “I think you’ll win _any_ contest my cousins challenge you to.” 

Stunned, cheeks burning, Clint lets him close the door without so much as considering a comeback. 

Though really, what is there to say? 

It was a nice compliment. 

Stripping out of the rest of his clothes, Clint scrubs down with a towel to get his skin warming up and dresses in loose tac pants and a hooded sweatshirt. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on a thick pair of socks when Phil comes back out, dressed in his own jeans and a hooded sweatshirt that has the word RANGER stamped across the chest. His hair is fluffy at the back where he’s dried it and his cheeks and pink, and Clint wants to snuggle the hell out of him but before he can open his mouth to do something unforgivably sappy and ask for a hug, his phone buzzes against his thigh. 

There are very, very few people who have his phone number. 

Even as he’s pulling it out of his pocket he knows who it is. 

“Down in a minute?” he says hopefully, waggling it at Phil with the screen turned away so he can’t see the caller ID. 

“Sure,” he agrees, far more easily than Clint expects him to. “I have to make a call of my own anyway.” 

He leaves the bedroom without another word and Clint swallows hard, because that can’t be a coincidence, but there’s nothing he can do except answer the call still buzzing insistently in his hand. 

“You’re on lockdown,” he says quietly as soon as the call connects. “You’re gonna get in trouble.” 

“Only if I get caught,” Natasha replies, and Clint can’t help it, he’s happy to hear her voice. “Where are you?” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Clint huffs happily, flopping back onto the bed. “You ok?” 

“Bored,” she replies, and something in Clint’s gut twangs because even he’s smart enough to realize that the Black Widow being bored is not a good thing. 

“You almost through your evals?” 

“I’m still alive – I've _been_ evaluated,” she points out, and yeah, fair point. “I will be cleared when there is a use for me; Nicholas Fury and your Agent Coulson are not stupid men.” 

Clint bites his lip, and in the short silence that follows he can practically hear her figuring things out. 

“Clint. Where are you?” 

“Coulson took me home,” he says, quickly because that will probably get him the least punishment when he sees her next. “For Christmas. He needed a fake boyfriend and he told me it would count for my undercover credits, and he didn’t want to leave me in medical...” 

“You’re babbling,” she interrupts, calmly and without much alarm, though why he expected her to sound alarmed Clint has no idea. “Why are you explaining yourself to me?” 

“You know why,” he says quietly, because he needs her to understand this, now, before he goes back to SHIELD and he stands with her side-by-side; partners, back-up, one part of a Strike Team closer than family. “Natasha, you’re important to me. I know you don’t get that yet, but I’ll show you, I promise.” 

“What does this have to do with the fact that you are in love with Phil Coulson?” 

“I am not _in love_ with Phil Coulson!” he yelps, because he’s not, it’s _way_ too soon. “Tasha...” 

“Clinton...” 

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” he groans, dropping his forearm over his face. “I like him ok. You know that.” 

“Yes, you told me at length. I’ve never known a man to wax poetic after someone they didn’t love the way you do about Phil Coulson.” 

“He’s a good man,” Clint mumbles, half defensive, half ashamed. 

He feels like he’s fifteen, confessing a crush to his big sister. 

“I care about him.” 

“And this is a bad thing?” Natasha hums inquisitively. 

“We’re dating,” he blurts out, “Like, for real. We decided yesterday, to... try and see how it goes.” 

A long moment of silence passes, and Clint’s heart pounds in his throat. He’s terrified that he’s messed this up, ruined everything, because she’d told him that week they were on the run together after he’d gone rogue from Maria Hill’s op, she’d _told him_ what had happened between her and the Red Room, how she’d been betrayed. He done his best to make her understand that SHIELD wasn’t like that, that _Phil_ wasn’t like that, but now... 

“I’m happy for you Little Bird.” 

Clint chokes on a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, practically sobs with relief. 

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds far too young and vulnerable to his own ears. 

“You wanted this, did you not?” 

Oh yeah. 

He’d told her _that_ too. 

“Yeah,” he confesses, “I really, really did. But listen Tasha, it’s gonna be great ok? Coulson’s gonna be our handler now, and we’ll get to work together on ops and it’ll be awesome!” 

“Yes, I saw the paperwork,” she replies noncommittally. “But Clint, you are on vacation no? Work will wait. Go play with your new toy, learn something about him no one else knows.” 

“You make it so weird,” Clint grumbles fondly, and if he lies to himself a little he can almost convince himself she smiles. 

“I have to go,” she says, still calm, completely unconcerned she’ll be caught with the phone. “Tell Coulson I said Merry Christmas.” 

“I will. Hey, take care of yourself ok? I’ll see you soon, I promise.” 

“Yes, I expect you will.”

**AVAVA**

Phil doesn’t actually _call_ Fury after leaving the bedroom.

If he does that he’ll get sucked into solving some problem, which will lead to him getting sucked into coming back to work, and he’s enjoying himself immensely here at home this year. 

He’s well aware that that’s due in no small part to Clint, who’s barreling through his family’s version of Olympic Christmas with the grace of an athlete and the joy of a child. He’s beautiful to watch, the way his eyes light up and he tries something Phil is pretty sure he never had the chance to try before. 

It’s quite obvious he hasn’t had a lot of Christmases in his life. 

That’s the only reason he’s risking contact with Fury at all. 

**PC: I need you to send me Clint’s Specialist pins and his Level III passes. By Christmas.**

**PC: I also need to file a DD3.FR.107 when we get back.**

He gets no response, which is neither surprising nor concerning. If Fury had a problem with him filing the fraternization paperwork with Clint he would hear about it, but Phil knows the Director far better than anyone, and he knows that the man has far bigger things to plot over in the middle of the night than his relationship status. No, he’ll have his assistant Margot box up Clint’s pins and ID’s and drop in an acidly-sarcastic note before having them express-shipped, and when Phil gets back he’ll be told he’s the head of a new Strike Team. He’ll be asked one time if that’s a problem, in a tone that suggests he get the hell over it if it is, and that will be the end of it. 

He and Fury work well that way. 

He finds his mother, Beth, RJ, and Sarah in the kitchen serving up soup and sandwiches, and can hear the rest of the family in the dining room, laughing and chattering. The kitchen is bright and warm, smells like spicy tomato soup and butter, and he doesn’t try to stop himself from stepping up behind his mother wrapping his arms around her in a hug. 

“I love you,” he says against her hair, because he does and he isn’t home to say it enough. 

She offers him a smile over her shoulder that says she can tell he’s feeling a little off balance, but doesn’t press him as to why, one of the many, many reasons she’s the best mother he could have possibly asked for. 

“I love you too sweetie,” she murmurs softly, patting his forearm before going back to the grilled cheeses she’s cutting into triangles. “Did you and Clint have fun out there this morning?” 

“Yeah. Clint’s loving it – I think it’s the first real Christmas he’s ever had.” 

“Poor boy,” Ellie tuts, wiping her knife on her apron. “I’m so glad you brought him with you Phillip.” 

“Me too. Clint’s a good man.” 

“You sure about that Phil?” 

Phil frowns, looks up as the twins step into the kitchen with dark, sly expressions on their faces. 

“Yes,” he replies coldly, with a dark expression of his own that’s been known to send junior agents skittering for cover. “I am.” 

“Bad luck cuz,” Nate says, voice full of fake sympathy. “I think you might be wrong.” 

“Nathan Allen Coulson,” Ellie scolds sharply. “That’s enough. Now I don’t know what you think you’re on about...” 

“But we heard him Aunt Ellie,” Drew whines, and Phil narrows his eyes. “He’s upstairs on the phone with some _woman.”_

Oh. 

“We just don’t want Phil getting hurt,” Nate adds. “He _said_ he’s not in love with Phil, and he’s up there telling some chick named Natasha how _important_ she is to him.” 

Phil barks a laugh. 

He can’t help it and he doesn’t try – he might’ve guessed who was on the phone with Clint upstairs and he’s not surprised at all. His cousins are obviously trying to cause some upset, to hurt him with the idea that he’s being cheated on, but they picked a terrible way to try to do it. 

All around him his family seems to take a breath, and he hadn’t realized how tense his mother, brother, and sister had become until everything relaxes. Grinning to himself, he shakes his head, amused and sort of... fondly exasperated with his cousins. 

At least they’re consistent assholes. 

Before he can open his mouth to further defuse the awkwardness, Clint comes trotting into the kitchen with a grin on his face that he immediately drops, coming up against the tension like a brick wall. 

“Umm...” he says slowly, glancing around and looking almost hilariously guilty. 

“How is she?” Phil asks, picking up two soup bowls and carrying them over to the pot on the stove, projecting nonchalance. 

Clint stares at him for a second, apparently surprised, then chuckles and rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. 

“Bored,” he replies, and Phil tries not to blanche at the thought of a bored Black Widow. “I think she misses us.” 

“She misses _you,”_ Phil corrects easily, spooning soup into the bowls. “I doubt she misses me.” 

“Yeah, but I think she’s excited for us _both_ to come back. She told me to tell you Merry Christmas.” 

Turning Phil steps up to Clint’s side and presses a bowl of soup into his hands, lingering when their fingers touch. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, though he isn’t sure why or what for. 

Wrapping his free arm around Clint’s waist, he pulls him close and snuggles against him for a minute, pleased and only a little embarrassed when Clint pets over the back of his head and looks at him with some concern. 

“You ok?” he asks, clearly confused, but Phil just smiles at him. 

“Yeah, I'm good.” 

Clint breathes a bit of a sigh, clearly relieved, and Phil wonders if he expected to get in trouble for talking to Natasha Romanov, who’s meant to be on total lockdown back on SHIELD base. He muses on this as the two of them take their soup and sandwiches into the dining room and steal seats vacated by Kate and America, who’ve already devoured their own lunch. He’s got no particular concerns about the fact that the Widow had managed to contact him – in fact he’d be both nervous and somewhat disappointed if she hadn’t done exactly that. 

No, he’s... happy, glad for her and for Clint, because he can see the similarities between the two and he hadn’t been shocked for a minute that Clint had gone after her and brought her back with him to SHIELD all those months ago. They’re a bit like two sides of the same coin – an idea he’s not really explored yet – but he’s got a feeling in his gut that tells him they’ll be good for each other. He’s glad for one more person in Clint’s corner, one more person watching out for him, and he thinks that perhaps Natasha Romanov needs that too, even if she doesn’t know it yet. 

“Friend of yours then?” Nate asks snidely as they come sit at the table with the rest of them, all the adults finishing up while the kids dutifully rinse their bowls back in the kitchen. “On the phone?” 

“Good friend, yeah,” Clint replies easily, though whether he’s unaware of Nate’s implications or just doing his best to irritate him, Phil isn’t sure. “At least, I think we’re friends.” 

He pauses, mouth quirked as he seems to consider. 

“She treats me like her little brother.” 

“That’s only going to get worse; you do know that right?” Phil points out helpfully, and Clint sticks out his tongue at him. 

“Clint convinced Natasha to come work for us recently,” he explains, because his mother is still watching them like she’s worried. That’s not the only reason he leans back in his chair, puts his arm across the back of Clint’s and brushes his thumb against his shoulder. “He has a habit of bringing in strays.” 

“Hey, no one ever proved that I left those puppies in Jasper’s office,” Clint pouts. 

“They were all wearing purple bandanas,” Phil points out. 

“I found them that way!” 

Clint immediately freezes, eyes wide and one hand slapped over his mouth as he realizes what he’s confessed to, and everyone but Nate and Drew laughs. 

Phil doesn’t buy it – Clint's smarter than that – but he’s always been good at putting other people at ease. The subject changes and something in the air relaxes just a little bit more, and as they finish lunch Clint offers him a small, shy smile. 

They’ll all nap after this. 

Well, most of them anyway. 

His mother and his Aunt Jo will probably get out the blocks and play with Aiden on the living room floor, and the twins are as likely as anything to head out to the garage to throw some weights around. Everyone else though, exhausted from playing in the snow all morning, will likely retreat to their rooms, or to the beanbags downstairs where the kids will pretend to watch movies because naps are for _little kids._ Tonight they’ll come together for dinner, and there will probably be some quiet Christmas carols when Kate and America inevitably open the old piano at the back of the house. Things will be quiet, peaceful, and Phil’s looking forward to it in that easy, familiar way that speaks of home. 

He hugs his mother. 

He kisses Beth and Sarah on the forehead, clasps arms with his brother and with Kyle. 

With his father he just shares a quiet look, and sees all his pride and approval in his face. 

Climbing the stairs, he slips into bed and is immediately beset by a cuddly archer, who curls up next to him and rests his head on Phil’s chest, closes his eyes. 

It’s a gesture of trust from a man who still has trouble sleeping in a car or on a quinjet, and Phil thinks about what Nate had said downstairs, about Clint telling Natasha he didn’t love him. 

It’s too soon for that, he knows, but with Clint already dozing off beside him, he wonders if maybe Clint wasn’t just a little bit wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

“Uncle Phil, Clint, come with us!” 

“Yeah Uncle Phil. Come on Clint, come with us!” 

“Ok, ok, we’re coming,” Phil chuckles, abandoning his book and waiting for Clint to get up before he follows him off of the couch. 

They’ve been relaxing near the Christmas tree all morning while most of the adults bake in the kitchen, whipping up batches of cookies and fudge to take round to some of thier distant neighbors tomorrow night. The living room is warm and full of sweet smells, and Clint had nearly dozed off with his head in Phil’s lap despite having napped pretty well the afternoon before. A whole gaggle of little Coulsons shatter the peace as they come running in, laughing and grinning and pulling them both up onto their feet. 

Clint couldn’t care less – it means more than he can say that he’s been accepted into the fold so easily and included in everything the family does. 

“Where are we going?” Clint asks curiously as they follow Kate, America, Teddy, Tommy, and Seth toward the entry way where there’s a mad scramble for hats and coats. 

“Into town,” Phil explains as he hands Clint his jacket from the hook. “Bundle up ok? We’re going to be doing some walking.” 

Clint pauses and stares for a second, because he’s not used to this ok, this sweetness and consideration. Phil cocks an eyebrow in question, like those words, that sentiment doesn’t warm him up all the way through from the inside out, and Clint takes the opportunity to kiss him, long and slow, even as kids shriek and squeal and _ewww_ all around him. 

“Oh, to be young and ridiculous again,” Phil sighs dramatically, scrubbing his hand through whose ever hair he can reach. 

It’s cute, the way he is with them. 

Not like with the junior agents, but not totally _unlike_ that either. 

Natasha's advice from yesterday tickles the back of Clint’s brain, but he pushes it aside. 

He doesn’t think that this is what his very-Russian friend had meant when she told him to learn something about Phil Coulson. 

Besides, what more does he need to know than this, the look on his face and the gentleness in his hands as he loops a scarf around Clint’s neck and zips his coat up a little tighter? 

Nothing – he's already pretty much gone on the guy thanks very much, no matter what he told Natasha. 

They’re halfway to the car before Clint realizes that they’re the only adults in the group and Phil’s got the keys to their SHIELD SUV in his hand. Panic promptly follows the realization, because as much as he likes the kids and as happy as he is to be included, he is so not responsible enough for this. Plus, as America pulls open the back door and turns to help little Seth up into the backseat, he realizes that his bow is still underneath it. 

“Woah, hold up!” he yelps, voice higher and tighter than he’d meant it to be. “Hang on kiddos, lemme just, um...” 

Squeezing between them, he climbs awkwardly into the back seat and pulls out his bowcase, bringing it out of the car up over the heads of all the kids who’ve gone alert and curious. 

“It’s locked, I promise,” he explains quickly as he catches Phil’s eye, the case held over his head as Tommy and Teddy and Seth all start jumping, peppering him with questions that Kate and America are asking just as loudly. “But um...” 

“You can take it inside,” Phil says, before looking right into Clint’s damn soul. “Or we can take Kyle’s van. Whatever you’re comfortable with Clint.” 

“I... I can take it inside?” he asks, liking dry lips as his heart pounds. “It’s ok?” 

“It’s ok.” 

Swallowing hard, Clint nods and turns away, heads back up the sidewalk toward the front door. 

He gets it. 

God, he _gets it; knows_ how important this is to him even though it’s Clint’s personal bow, not that fancy or expensive. He’s not even been allowed to _use_ it at SHIELD, but Phil knows what it means to him and how much he needs it to be kept safe... 

That’s a big part of it. 

He hunches his shoulders guiltily as he steps back into the house, but he can’t deny that’s a part of it. 

As much as he needs the kids to be safe from the bow, he needs the bow to be safe from the kids too. 

“Did you forget something sweetie?” 

Clint jumps, startled, hard enough that he knocks his elbow off the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Ellie Coulson tilts her head, a sympathetic expression on her face, and for a second Clint feels sick. 

“Sorry,” he blurts, “I just um... I didn’t want it in the car. With the kids. Is it ok if I...” 

“You can put it upstairs in your room if you like,” she says, nodding at the case in his hands. “Or if you’re more comfortable, you can keep it in Robert’s study. The gun safe is in there, so we keep it locked.” 

Clint feels surprise spread across his face, even as his chest loosens up and his breathing comes a little easier. 

“Don’t look so shocked,” Ellie chuckles, a sweet smile on her face. “My son was a Ranger and my nephew was a Marine – that won’t be the first weapon to walk through my door. I appreciate you being mindful of it around the children though.” 

“I wouldn’t...” 

“Oh I know sweetheart,” she says easily, waving off his protests. “With the way Phillip is, I can’t imagine you would. Still, I do appreciate it. Come on; I’ll show you if you want.” 

Following obediently, Clint calls himself all kinds of an idiot in his head for thinking that a family that bred Phil Coulson wouldn’t know guns. Over the years he’s found that even a little familiarity with the concept of keeping weapons hugely cuts down on the panic when one shows up, so despite the fact that his bow is a bit more rare than the pistol Phil’s got tucked into a drawer upstairs, he shouldn’t have freaked out. 

Did he freak out? 

He’s... kind of freaking out right now, why is he freaking out right now?! 

“Here you are sweetie,” Ellie says, pulling him out of his suddenly racing thoughts. “Your case should fit in there – we took a few of the rifles home last spring.” 

Swallowing, Clint steps forward and carefully puts his bow into the large, heavy safe, his hands shaking as he nestles it between two shotguns. 

“4.10 single action,” he says as he steps back, for lack of anything better to say as he tries to scrape up the pieces of himself that for some stupid reason are threatening to shatter. “Pretty.” 

“Yes, that one’s mine,” Ellie says with a smile, admiring the gun before closing the safe and turning the lock with a satisfying _chunk._ "Robert and I enjoy a bit of quail hunting when the weather’s nice. Beth too sometimes.” 

“Are you any good?” he asks, following her out of the study. 

“We don’t go hungry,” she says with a wink, “But I can’t imagine I hold a candle to the World’s Greatest Marksman.” 

Clint blushes painfully, ducks his head. 

“That’s not...” 

Taking a deep breath, he tries again. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, scrubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just, you’ve all been so nice and I... I want you to like me.” 

He barely gets it out, his cheeks burning as he wraps his arms around himself, but he manages it, even if he can’t lift his head to look at her. That’s what’s going on, he realizes, that’s where this weird little panic attack is coming from. Sure, he hadn’t wanted to look like a schmuck in front of his boss’s family, but Phil’s not just his boss anymore and Clint really likes him and maybe this morning he _had_ been thinking about how great it would be to come back and do this again next Christmas, but... 

“It’s silly,” he mutters, preparing himself to take a deep breath and shrug this off, to paste on a charming grin and pretend this embarrassing little episode didn’t happen. 

“Only a bit,” Ellie says softly, and Clint’s head snaps up to meet her gaze sparkling with mischief and soft with concern. 

“Only a bit,” she says again, reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand. “Only because we already like you.” 

Clint’s heart thumps in his chest and he must look stunned, or scared, because she smiles and shakes her head at him. 

“Oh sweetie. You’re such a good boy. You play with my grandbabies and you help with the dishes and you put up with my sister’s boys... my son is happier and more relaxed this Christmas than I’ve seen him in a very long time. I can only attribute that to you.” 

“I don’t...” 

“Of course you do,” she shushes him, pulling him down into a hug and petting his hair before she lets him go again. “He used to talk about you, you know. The Amazing Hawkeye. I don’t know exactly what it is that my son does for a living and I don’t ask, because a mother likes to be a bit oblivious of certain things, but I do know that he was proud of you. I always did wonder...” 

She trails off, and the smile she sends him is secretive and girlish and lights up her whole face. 

“Well never mind,” she says, shooing him back toward the front door. “Now I’ve finally got to meet you; you’re here, and I’m happy you’re here Clint.” 

Pausing in the open doorway, he turns to look at her, practically screaming mom from her head to her toes. 

Terrified, he darts back in and presses a kiss to her cheek. 

“Me too.”

**AVAVA**

Tuning out the warbling rendition of _Jingle Bell Rock_ coming from his back seat, Phil watches in the rearview mirror as Clint comes bolting back down the porch steps and heads for the car at a jog, his cheeks bright red. Behind him in the doorway his mother watches, her hands clasped low in front of her the way she holds herself when she’s particularly pleased. He wants to ask, but when Clint climbs into the passenger seat with eyes that are suspiciously wet and bright, he decides to leave it and just puts the car in drive instead.

Fifteen minutes later they’re down the mountain and back in town, and the kids have coaxed Clint into a round of _Up on the Housetop._ Because none of them know all of the words it ends up being a rather unique cover, but there’s an air of happiness in the car that wasn’t there at the beginning of the drive. 

Finding a place to park on a quiet side-street, Phil gives the all-clear and helps America and Kate unload the boys from the back. Once they’re all lined up neatly, he takes a thick stack of one-dollar bills from his pocket and starts counting out ten of them into each palm. 

“What are the rules?” he asks, and Kate and America chorus dutifully back at him. 

_“Stay together, don’t run off, if someone tries to kidnap us - scream.”_

“I did _not_ teach them that,” Phil says flatly, and Clint laughs, which is just the reaction he was hoping for. 

“Hold hands crossing the street,” he said, “And we go to one shop at a time. You each have ten dollars for your Santa Swap and no more, so use it wisely.” 

There’s a bit of grumbling but Kate and America both stuff their cash into their pockets and grab on to whatever hand they can reach, so that Tommy, Teddy, and Seth are all well-leashed. They immediately head toward the Five and Dime, a small sort of general store on the corner that all the kids are well familiar with after so many Christmases up here. He quickly falls into step behind them, knowing he’ll be left behind if he doesn’t pay attention, and when Clint matches his stride, he reaches out to take his hand. 

He’s tense. 

Phil doesn’t think it’s the hand-holding in public, but he isn’t sure so he makes to let go. 

Clint just grabs on tighter. 

“So, Santa Swap?” he asks, clearing his throat gruffly as they watch the kids file into the store ahead of them and immediately scatter like pinballs into the aisles. 

“It’s how we do presents,” he replies, turning down the aisle Seth disappeared into because he’s the one that needs the most supervision. “My mother usually does something small for everyone and the kids get presents from their parents and Santa Clause, obviously, but other than that we just do this. I think some people call it White Elephant.” 

Clint doesn’t reply, and Phil kicks himself a little, pulls him closer and cuddles against his side because Clint had _told him_ he didn’t know about these things. 

“It’s a game,” he explains. “Instead of everyone trying to buy presents for everyone, or pulling a name out of a hat, we do this. Each person gets ten dollars to spend on whatever they choose, and that gets wrapped and put under the tree. Then on Christmas Eve instead of doing a gift exchange we do a grab-bag.” 

“So it doesn’t matter who gets what for who,” Clint says slowly, chewing his lower lip. 

“Exactly.” 

Clint frowns, looks pensive. 

“I can spot you ten bucks if you need it,” he says jokingly, bumping him with his shoulder. 

“I’ve got ten bucks Phil,” Clint scoffs, but he rolls his eyes and looks just a little less nervous. 

“Then what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” he sighs heavily. “Just... I told your mom, this has all been really great so far. Special, you know? And I’m not a hundred percent on this but I’m pretty sure your first Christmas with somebody is _supposed_ to be special.” 

There he pauses, turns toward Phil with his head ducked, only to lift both hands to play with the buttons on his coat. 

“I _want_ it to be special,” he mumbles shamefacedly. “I don’t know, I guess I just feel... unprepared? I feel like I need to cry – it's _stupid.”_

“Not stupid,” Phil promises, pulling Clint in for a hug, even as he scolds himself to keep an eye on Seth over the archer’s shoulder. “Clint, not stupid. This has been one of the best Christmases I’ve had in a really long time, and at least sixty-five percent of that is because of you.” 

“Only sixty-five huh?” Clint asks, sniffling a little but smiling when he pulls away. 

“I said _at least_ sixty-five,” Phil corrects, brushing his thumb over the corner of Clint’s mouth. “Maybe more.” 

Leaning in, Clint presses a long kiss to his lips. 

“Sorry I’m being such a downer,” he apologizes when he pulls away, taking Phil’s hand again to stroll down the aisle as Seth starts to creep away. 

“You’re not being a downer,” Phil says carefully, wanting to provide support but not wanting to place blame. “I know this is different for you. I just want you to be happy.” 

“I am!” Clint practically yips, turning to look at him with an anxious expression. “Phil, I _am._ This, everything, even without us... well, I mean, us is a huge part of it, but...” 

Phil laughs, kisses the words from his mouth. 

“So it’s all ok?” he asks, his chest a little tight because he needs to hear that answer. 

“Yeah,” Clint says slowly, a smile dawning on his face, like he’s just getting it. “You know, I think it is.”

**AVAVA**

The rest of the afternoon goes better.

He and Phil follow the kids through a bunch of different local stores, holding hands the whole time, and despite Clint’s weird mood and unnecessary freak-out that morning, it’s a lot of fun. He feels lighter somehow, like all the worries he hadn’t known he had are gone. He can breathe easier, and has gone back to genuinely enjoying the Christmas excitement and festivities like he had been up until... well, whatever that was. 

He comforts himself in knowing that between the two of them they were owed a bit of a meltdown – none of this had really gone to plan. All things considered it had been pretty mild and understandable, and now that it’s done and out of the way they can get back to just enjoying each other’s company. 

Which, yeah, he’s definitely doing that. 

It’s a tiny town. Clint doesn’t remember the name of it, but it’s mostly one little Main Street lined with tiny shops and not a whole lot else. There are decorations and lights everywhere, wreaths hanging from the street lights and miniature displays in the windows, and while it’s not nearly as crowded as a New York City sidewalk, there’s a feeling of cheer and excitement in the air as people bustle back and forth, waving and calling out greetings to each other. 

Clint gets introduced to three neighbors, the local pastor, and the purveyor of the famous Donovan’s as Phil’s partner, and every time he melts a little bit inside, pride and eagerness sparking hot in his belly. 

The kids are a laugh-riot, and a lot easier to handle than Clint expected. Kate and America are safe on their own, and pretty willing to keep an eye on Tommy and Teddy. Seth is good about sticking within sight, if not clinging to either Clint or Phil’s hand, and luckily they’ve not gone to a mini-mall with a hundred stores to visit. The Five and Dime, a hobby shop, and a candy store are the main stops, and it’s actually kind of fun to watch each kid carefully count out their money at the cash registers to buy their gifts. 

A balsa-wood model airplane goes into one bag. 

A light-up yo-yo goes into another. 

Clint watches a paperback book of jokes, a canister of glitter gel-pens, and a packet of chili-spiced chocolate all get squirreled away, and as he watches the band around his chest loosens more and more with each purchase. 

This is easy, he thinks, light-hearted. 

Not nearly so world-crushingly important as it had seemed before. 

He finds a tiny glass Christmas ornament in the shape of a tree, and card with a picture of a large log-cabin on the front, all lit up with lights. It’s maybe not the best, most well-thought-out gift, but he’s a bit pressed for time and he thinks if he’s able to write out what he feels, what he wants Ellie Coulson to know, that it might be enough. Phil just smiles and nuzzles against him, lips pressed against his neck and jaw until Clint shivers and the kids come running back, hollering to go to the next store. 

The candy shop is cool. It’s got an old-fashioned counter where you can watch taffy being pulled, and a wall of clear glass jars full of different sweets you could fish out into bags with gleaming silver scoops. Clint helps Seth wrap up about half a pound of tiny, brightly colored hard candies that he suspects are the boy’s own favorite, but even though his eyes gleam brightly, he doesn’t ask for a single piece for himself. It gets tied with a ribbon and payed for with the last of his money, and goes straight into the bag he’s carrying with the rest of his gift. Clint’s built one too; out of purple sharpies and a pair of cheap but well-made earbuds, bubblegum playing cards and purple shoelaces. 

It was a gift any SHIELD agent would be happy to get, and he thinks Phil sees it to, because he’s got a secret-sort of grin at the corner of his mouth when he peeks inside Clint’s bag. 

They buy each of the kids a treat at the bakery counter in the corner of the candy store, nixing Kate and America’s plea for coffee but compromising with choco-peppermint mochas, while the boys all clamor for green and red wreath-shaped rice krispie treats. Clint gets a mocha of his own and ends up with a smudge of whipped cream on his lower lip, which Phil wipes away with his thumb and a look on his face like he wants to eat Clint alive. 

He’s getting kinda used to those looks, and the wait is kinda killing him inside. 

The kids go piling out onto the sidewalk ahead of them, all loud chatter and the swish of plastic bags. Clint takes the only opportunity he sees coming for a while and grabs Phil around the waist, pulling him in close and kissing him long and hard. Phil whimpers into it, snakes his tongue out to play, and doesn’t say a word when Clint lets him go again and trots after the kids. They sing more carols all the way home, and by the time they walk back into the house Clint’s ready to go inside again. 

The group scatters to all corners of the house, finding quiet places to wrap up their gifts in secret. Clint follows Phil upstairs and they sit across from each other on the bed, wrapping up presents in crinkly tissue-paper before tucking them into gift bags. They do silent battle to see who can tie a fancier knot on their bows, and Clint gives up a kiss to the winner.

**AVAVA**

“Euchre?”

“We’d need one more,” Phil points out, his arm draped over Clint’s shoulders as Beth, David, Kyle, and the twins argue over what game to play. 

The kids are in the front room set up with board games and Uno, and the rest of the adults are in the dining room playing five-hand canasta, because in their hearts RJ and Sarah are just as old as Phil’s aunt and parents. They’ve already proposed most of the card games, and no one wants to start Monopoly this late. 

“We’ll play Never-Have-I-Ever,” Nate decides, and the rest of the group – minus his brother of course – groans loudly. 

Their disagreement doesn’t register – he's already pouring shots of rum from the bottle he must have swiped on his way through the kitchen. Phil watches with a cool sort of detached amusement; his mother will have his hide when she finds out – that’s the good stuff she uses for her Christmas rum cake. Beth spies it too, and winks at him from across the couch. 

Clint catches her of course, and his chuckle is a deep rumble against Phil’s side, a warm, contented purr. Leaning forward, he accepts two coffee mugs now filled with an ounce of rum apiece and offers Phil his with a long-suffering grin. 

Phil can’t be blamed for kissing it off the corner of his mouth. 

“Never have I ever...” Nate simpers, and Phil’s attention immediately turns from his boyfriend to his cousin, because he _knows_ that tone, “Killed another person.” 

“What the hell Nate!?” Beth yelps, shocked and furious, even as Clint, Phil, and Kyle all roll their eyes and down their alcohol. 

“What?” he whines innocently, “I’m just getting the hard ones out of the way.” 

“That’s not funny,” David scolds coldly. “War’s not a game. It’s Christmas you shithead – change the subject.” 

“Fine,” Drew huffs, next in line around the circle. “Never have I ever gone undercover.” 

Phil stifles a sigh – so that’s the real game them. 

Once more, he, Clint, Kyle – and to his surprise Beth – all drink. 

“Remember when RJ wanted to date that girl from the private school?” Beth asks when he cocks an eyebrow. 

“You mean that year you dyed your hair blonde and bought a bunch of plaid mini-skirts?” 

Clint laughs, Beth winks, and David practically guffaws. 

“Still got any of those skirts?” he asks, and Beth blushes, slapping at him. 

This time Nate and Drew roll their eyes, and the game continues on around the circle, with far less animosity now that their turns have passed. Unfortunately, it comes back around to them a second time, and they both dive right back in, eyes narrowed in Clint and Phil’s direction. 

“Never have I ever cheated.” 

Half the group scoffs; Kyle drinks and so do both the twins. 

Idiots. 

“What happened with Trina doesn’t count,” Phil points out, but Kyle just smirks around the rim of his mug. 

“Yeah jerk,” Beth adds, leaning around her husband to punch him on the shoulder. “The psycho set her identical twin on you – that _so_ doesn’t count.” 

“Anyway,” Drew grumbles. “Never have I ever dated someone I didn’t want to date.” 

This time David barks a laugh, and every single person in the circle except the twins drink. 

“What, you’ve never had to break up with anyone?” Clint asks, as unamused as Phil by this point but clearly trying to play along. “Never have I ever...” 

“Phillip?” 

Phil’s mother’s voice is calm and quite, but he immediately recognizes the thread of concern running through it. He, Clint, and the rest all turn toward the kitchen, and Phil’s heart leaps into his throat as she steps into the living room, the Black Widow tight on her heels.


	10. Chapter 10

"Nat!” Clint yelps, leaping to his feet and vaulting, _yes, vaulting_ over the back of the couch. 

Phil instinctively snatches at him, missing his shirt by a spare inch before he follows him up onto his feet. As he rounds the couch, he sees Clint dodge his mother, sees his hands come up like he wants to take the Black Widow’s face in his hands, but he very deliberately holds himself back, fingers curling at his sides. 

“Are you ok?” he asks insistently, searching her face as Phil hurries to their side. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m fine Little Bird,” Natasha Romanov replies in Russian, in a calm, reassuring tone, but Phil flat-out doesn’t believe it. 

For one he suspects that her version of ‘fine’ and other people’s version of _‘fine’_ are drastically different, but she’s also standing in the middle of his family home wearing a black catsuit that screams _dominatrix_ and a holstered pistol on each hip, high-tech looking bracelets that scream _weapon_ wrapped around her wrists. She’s got two go-bags over her shoulder and a tablet under her arm, and no, this is not fine at all. 

“I haven’t run,” she says, rolling her eyes as she watches him approach over Clint’s shoulder. “The Director sent me.” 

“Good to know,” he replies in a cold, flat, perfectly fluent Russian of his own, catching Clint’s jolt out of the corner of his eye and forcing himself not to react to it. “Did he deign to tell you why?” 

The Widow quirks an eyebrow, looks utterly unimpressed, but hands over a tablet that immediately lights up under his thumbprint. Tapping quickly through the interface, Phil scans the information only to feel his heart sink into his stomach – the Greek op has gone bust and three agents have missed their last check-in. 

“He said to tell you Merry Christmas, and that Delta is go.” 

A helpless little laugh bubbles up out of Phil’s chest before he can stop it, and beside him his mother wrings her hands. He sighs, shakes his head sadly, tiredly, then turns and takes her into his arms. 

“I have to go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair. 

He never wanted her to get this close to what he does. 

“You’ll be careful?” she asks, then, more quietly, “You’ll take care of each other?” 

“Of course,” he whispers, choked with stupid, stupid tears. 

Leave it to his mother to understand somehow, to know the perfect thing to say, the only thing. 

Letting her go, he pulls back and strokes her cheek, turns back to his agents. 

“Barton, suit up,” he orders, slipping back into his role as senior agent and handler so easily and naturally that his knees nearly go weak with it. 

“On it, Boss,” Barton raps. 

It’s not sarcastic, not overly-strict and smart. 

He just nods, one time, firm and sure, and takes the go-bag Romanov offers him, disappearing into his father’s office and closing the door behind him. 

“Boss?” Nate scoffs behind him, and Phil closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. _“Seriously?”_

“Oh my god,” Drew snorts, laughing obnoxiously. “You’re not dating; he’s your _employee!”_

Phil feels himself flush hot then cold, grateful that he long ago trained himself out of blushing. He’s never wanted to throttle his cousins more than he does in that moment, and when he opens his eyes, he sees a similar desire burning in the Widow’s eyes. 

“Agent Coulson,” she says with a slow, poisonously sweet smile, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” 

“No, I am not,” he says dully, tapping back into the tablet and reading more thoroughly through the mission parameters before looking her in the eye. “Agent Romanov, I’m going to ask you this only once; are you ready to participate in this mission as a fully certified Agent of SHIELD?” 

If Phil didn’t know better, he would say that surprise flashes across the Black Widow’s face in that moment, a micro-expression that anyone would miss. He does know better of course, and she certainly wouldn’t allow anyone to see her soft, so when she stiffens her spine and shrugs Phil almost has to hold back another laugh. 

“He trusts you,” she says simply, jerking her chin toward the study door where Clint’s disappeared. “I trust him.” 

Phil nods – if that’s all she is willing to give him now that’s what he’ll take. He remembers what Barton was like when he first started hunting him, when he first came in to SHIELD before he learned that someone would always have his six. If they’re to do this – and from the information on his tablet they are – then Natasha Romanov will learn too in time, and he’ll foster that understanding along as slowly and quietly as need be. 

“Coulson.” 

Lifting his head, he finds her watching him speculatively and raises an eyebrow. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, vowels cold and heavy in her native language. “You didn’t have to ask. I didn’t _need_ you to ask.” 

“Of that I am well aware, Miss Romanov,” he says, anxiety racing slick and cool down his spine for all of a second before evaporating like it was never there. “But I will _always_ ask.” 

She’s quiet a moment, then nods and dips into some hidden pocket, coming up with a shallow, matte-black box embossed with the SHIELD emblem. She hands it over without a word and he doesn’t need to open it to know what’s inside. 

This isn’t how he’d wanted things to go. 

Still, Fury always has something up his sleeve, and Phil barks a laugh when he takes the lid off the box and finds his own face staring back at him, a new ID badge printed Level 7. Underneath, two sets of Specialists pins, and a new ID for Barton and Romanov both. 

“Keep them for me?” 

Phil starts, looks up to find an almost pensive expression on the Black Widow’s face. 

“These things, they are meaningless to me,” she explains, her eyes on the box in his hand. “Perhaps one day that will be different. But today they do not mean the same thing to me that they will mean to him.” 

Something in Phil’s chest squeezes at Phil’s heart – he doesn’t know what passed between her and Barton all those hours before he’d managed to bring her back to SHIELD – but it’s clear she truly does care for him, even if she doesn’t realize it, won’t admit it. 

That more than anything gives him the confidence to say what he says next. 

“One day they will,” he promises, taking her pins and Identification from the box and disappearing them into his pocket. “Until then I’ll keep them safe.” 

“Orders Sir?” 

Behind him Phil senses his family go quiet and still, the confused, slightly-stunned chatter cutting off sharply as Clint emerges from the study dressed in his dark, leather tac gear, bow and quiver strapped to his back. His eyes flick quickly to and away from Phil’s mother, a blush dusting his cheeks, and it’s clear that he has to fight to keep his head up. Seeing him nervous and ashamed is like a punch to the gut, and Phil can’t bear to see that now any more than he could the day that he challenged a scrawny, vigilante archer to become something better. 

“At attention Agent.” 

Clint’s eyes go wide for all of two seconds but he snaps to immediately; feet planted firmly, wrists crossed behind his back, chin high. 

Phil steps in close, takes the pins from the box, and carefully affixes them to Clint’s chest. 

“Clint Barton,” he says quietly, so that only the two of them and perhaps the Widow can hear, “For outstanding performance in the field and an unparalleled skill and remarkable dedication to your craft you are hereby promoted to the position of Specialist to be afforded all the rank and privileges therein.” 

Stepping back, he swallows hard, feels his eyes sting as he looks at the medal glinting against Clint’s vest, the stunned, proud expression on his face. 

“Agents Barton and Romanov, you are hereby appointed to Strike Team Delta,” he manages to grit out. 

A grin cracks across Clint’s face, the Widow’s lips quirk as her eyes go sly, and very, very suddenly he’s swamped with anticipation, eagerness, _pride._

“We’re due in Greece to pull one of our B teams out of the fire,” he says, raising an eyebrow at both of them. “Are you ready?” 

“Ready Boss,” Barton grins, shark-like and hungry. 

The Widow smiles, arsenic-sweet. 

“We’re ready Coulson,” she agrees, holding out the second go-bag. “Are you?”

**AVAVA**

Clint watches Phil disappear into the study to change and blows out a huge breath, laughing loudly and only the tiniest bit hysterically. His body is racing with adrenaline, excitement, and he can’t help but touch the pins Coulson had placed on his chest.

“Breathe Hawk,” Natasha counsels, and he lifts his head to gin at her. 

“I’m good Nat,” he huffs, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

He wants to hug her, wants to dance, but he keeps his hands to himself and tries to focus. 

“You have no idea how hard I’ve worked to get put on a Strike Team under Coulson,” he explains. 

“Just keep the dirty details to yourself,” she replies, and there’s something almost like a smirk at the corner of her mouth, like she’s made a joke. 

Clint sticks his tongue out at her, but behind him Beth’s shocked laugh snaps him out of his jovial mood. 

“Oh my god. He really _is_ a spy!” 

Clint’s eyes go wide – shit, how had he not realized that they just seriously outed Phil to his family – but a part of him is fiercely glad that now they have to understand, have to give him the respect he deserves. 

“Best one we’ve got,” he manages, offering her a small half-smile before looking from face to face, trying to measure their reactions. 

Beth looks a surprised as she sounds, but a little smug too. 

Her husband David doesn’t look surprised at all. 

Cousin Kyle looks proud, and the twins look like they’ve sucked on something sour, but there’s a nasty glint in their eyes too. 

Mama Coulson just looks worried. 

“Well, he never could stay out of trouble,” she sighs, folding and unfolding her fingers nervously. “Greece, he said? That’s a long way – you'll be needing something to eat. Sandwiches, some of the fruitcake...” 

Then she’s gone, walking off mumbling to herself like her head’s in the clouds, and Clint feels his shoulders sink miserably. 

Nat raises an eyebrow at him, but Beth just grins wryly. 

“It’s just what she does,” she explains, nodding after her mother. “When she’s worried. She makes sandwiches, and pretends that she’s not.” 

“She’s just really, really bad at it,” Kyle agrees. 

And well, that helps a little. 

Clint's fingers pluck the string of his bow nervously, strapped across his chest, and jerks his chin at Natasha’s bracelets, anxious. 

“New toys?” he asks, and she smiles, all teeth and blood-red lipstick. 

“Want to see?” 

“No, I really don’t.” 

“I _told you_ he was really a spy,” Beth huffs, eyeing her cousins, and Clint grins, shoulders Nat chummily. 

“They thought he was in accounting,” he says, letting her in on the joke. 

“Who even cares at this point?” Nate snickers, his arms crossed where he leans against the wall. “What I want to know is how he convinced his employee to pretend to be his boyfriend for Christmas.” 

“Kinda pathetic, even for Phil,” Drew adds, and Clint’s blood runs cold. “I mean, what did he do, blackmail you?” 

“Clint,” Natasha says sweetly before he can snarl a reply, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” 

He blinks, looks at her nervously because that didn’t sound good, and as much as the twins deserve a thrashing he doesn’t think that’s what the Widow has in mind, not with the way she’s looking at them, all hunger. 

“Um, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea...” 

“No, introduce us Clint,” Nate says, rolling his shoulders off the wall and sidling forward, followed closely by his brother. 

“Yeah Clint, don’t be rude,” Drew echoes, eyeing Natasha up and down. “Introduce us.” 

“Agent Romanov, spill blood on my mother’s antique rug and I assure you, you’ll face _her_ wrath not mine.” 

Clint breathes a sigh – things were getting a little tense there for a minute – and then nearly swallows his tongue. Coulson’s stepping out of the study in full assault gear, dressed in black from head to toe with a heavy kevlar vest strapped on tight, holsters on each thigh. He’s checking one of his handguns, eyeing the sight, and doesn’t even have to look up to read the situation. Clint’s seen him in suits – and damn can the man wear a suit – but this is different; this is the danger and the competence that makes Clint weak at the knees right there in his face for him to drool over, and Nat actually clips him under the chin to get him to shut his mouth. 

“I wasn’t gonna hurt ‘em,” she pouts affectedly, suddenly all puppy eyes that anyone but Coulson and maybe Clint would probably buy. “I just wanna play with ‘em a little.” 

“Save it for the international terrorists; my cousins aren’t worth your time,” he replies simply, like he isn’t standing there like the hottest thing Clint’s ever seen. “They don’t learn.” 

_“Hey!”_

“Phillip, I’ve made you all some sandwiches,” Ellie Coulson announces, bustling back into the room with honest-to-goodness brown paper bag lunches in her arms. 

There looks to be about a dozen of them, and Phil doesn’t react at all except to hold out his now-empty go bag and help her pile them inside. 

Clint? 

Well, Clint’s trying not to tear up all of a sudden because he can’t remember the last time he had a mother-figure pack him a lunch, and Natasha just looks blank, like she has no idea why people bother with strange rituals. He watches silently as Phil makes the rounds, hugging his sister, his brother-in-law, his cousin, and then disappears into the next room, probably to do the same with his brother, father, nieces and nephews. He very abruptly feels in-the-way and intrusive, and tries to fade away in Natasha’s shadow where she stands strong and proud, eyeing the twins the way he’s seen her eye a mark. Everything’s gone to chaos so quick his head is spinning, but... 

But this is his _normal_ too. 

Agent Barton, Hawkeye, ready to rock and roll, and he’s practically _buzzing_ with it. 

“Clint?” 

He tries not to flinch when Ellie Coulson says his name, sounding terribly unsure, but he doesn’t quite manage it. He hates that, hates that tone in her voice and that he’s the one that put it there, and if Nat didn’t trod hard on his foot he might not have responded at all, too scared, too ashamed. 

As it is, she practically kicks him forward and he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter. 

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he mumbles, coming to stand before her and ducking his head, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Whatever for sweetheart?” 

Clint looks up sharply, his mouth open, but with her looking at him curiously he honestly doesn’t know. 

“You told us what you did for a living,” she points out. “So did Phillip. It’s only our own faults if we didn’t listen. 

“I didn’t lie,” he says insistently, as that suddenly seems like the most pressing and necessary thing to say. “I haven’t... I haven’t lied to you, about _anything.”_

_“Yeah right,”_ Nate mutters, and Ellie Coulson spears him with a look Clint wouldn’t have thought her capable of. 

“You two hush,” she scolds sharply, eyes flashing, before turning back to him and cupping his cheek in her hand. 

“Don’t you listen to my nephews,” she counsels. “They’ve been jealous of Phillip since they were boys. You have nothing to prove, to _any_ of us, and besides, it doesn’t take a marksman to see what’s right under all of our noses.” 

Clint’s breath catches and he’s horrified to feel his lower lip quiver. Wrapping Ellie Coulson up in his arms, he hides his face in her shoulder and berates himself for wanting to cry, lets his body shake so he won’t. She lets him hold her, or maybe it’s the other way around, though somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that she’s being careful not to put her hands on his bow. Patting his shoulder consolingly, she waits till he pulls back, then stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Now you take care of my boy Clint Barton,” she says with mock sternness, “And let him take care of you.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“And your friend too,” she adds, looking past him at Natasha. “And if you make it home by Christmas, you’re both welcome back here.” 

Clint carefully doesn’t respond when he sees Nat’s brow furrow and doesn’t make any promises, and he can see her getting ready to scold _him_ this time, but then Phil is stepping back into the room and slipping back into his mother’s arms. 

“We’ll do our best mom,” he murmurs before turning to look at him and Nat, his arms still around her shoulders. “Agents Barton and Romanov _are_ our best. I wouldn’t be surprised if we do make it back in time.” 

“Well you all just be careful; don’t _rush!_ You know what your father says...” 

“Anything worth doing is worth doing right the first time,” Phil recites dutifully, but he’s smiling and that seems to be enough. “Wheels up Agents – we've got a flight to catch.” 

“Yes Sir!” Clint bites out smartly, the response ruined by the huge grin on his face. 

Snapping a salute, he heads for the front door with Natasha tight on his heels, grabbing his jacket on the way out. He looks back over his shoulder just once, only to catch Phil having to extract himself carefully from his mother’s grip. It makes his heart twang painfully in his chest but he pushes it aside, turns Clint off and turns Hawkeye on. Adrenaline zips through him hot and electric, and he puts on a burst of speed, racing Natasha to the car. 

This is gonna be awesome!


	11. Chapter 11

Phil wakes up sixty-three hours later with his cheek pressed against a cool pane of glass and a dull, thumping headache threatening the back of his skull. There’s a sensation of movement all around him, and a snug but yielding restraint across his chest. Breathing through his nose, he takes stock of himself and is reassured to find that he’s not confined in any other manner, searches his memory for how... 

Oh yes, Greece. 

Greece, and the B-team, and an _actual_ falling piano... 

Perhaps that’s where the headache came from? 

“Doing alright over there, boss?” 

Barton. 

Phil breathes in deeply through his nose, sits up carefully – _carefully_ – in the passenger seat of a SHIELD SUV. He’s been sleeping against the window, he realizes now, but still has no idea how he got there or where they’re going. 

“What happened?” he asks gruffly, clearing his throat and reaching for the travel mug sitting in the passenger’s cupholder. He practically whimpers when he finds still-warm coffee inside. 

Clint hesitates before responding in a quiet, concerned tone. 

“You don’t remember?” 

Phil rolls his head back on his shoulders, stretches the muscles in his neck and feels the headache start to recede as the high-octane caffeine hits his bloodstream. 

“I remember getting the B team out,” he replies, glancing over to find Clint frowning at the windshield, flicking glances his way out the corner of his eye. 

Licking his lips, he opens his mouth as if to say something, then clearly changes his mind and offers a single, simple nod. 

Phil settles back in the seat, closing his eyes and doing some cyclical breathing, sipping his coffee until everything smoothes out. 

“I remember the piano,” he continues, as images play slowly through his memory. “You knocked me out of the way.” 

“Still cracked your head trying to make sure Melendez’s busted arm didn’t get jostled,” Clint grumbles, shooting him a glare. “You seemed ok on the jet but you passed out before we got back to HQ.” 

“Mild concussion?” he asks, though going by the way he feels, he’s pretty confident that that’s the likely prognosis. “You walked me to medical.” 

“I walked everybody,” Clint points out. “Me and Nat were the only ones who cleared.” 

Phil’s quiet for a while, letting the memories trickle back in now that he’s awake and caffeinated and more aware of what’s going on. A feeling of intense pride surges in his chest long before a clear recollection of actual events unfolds, and then he remembers exactly how well his Specialists had done, how efficiently and effectively Strike Team Delta had achieved their mission’s objective and retrieved the other agents being held hostage by a small terrorist cell. 

“What are you smiling at?” 

“You,” Phil replies, opening his eyes and turning to smile at Clint more fully. “Well done Hawkeye. I’m proud of you.” 

Clint blushes, bites his lower lip, then releases it to let his own grin through. 

“Go Delta,” he offers with a smirk, and without thought Phil reaches out to lay a hand on his knee, to squeeze reassuringly. 

It’s only after he takes his hand back and realizes that Clint hadn’t tensed up that he realized he was worried about that in the first place. 

“So you walked me to medical,” he says again. “I think I remember them clearing me...” 

“They did,” Clint agrees. “Like you said, mild concussion. You put on a pretty straight face; you seemed fine till I got you to the car. Then you kinda passed out.” 

Phil frowns, immediately performs some brief self-assessments to determine if he needs to go back to medical. 

“I called,” Clint says when he catches him running through a quick fine-motor-skills exercise. “They said it was fine; probably more sleep deprivation than the bump on the head.” 

Yes, he remembers that now too. 

Remembers staying up while Clint and Natasha slept, guarding the door and only taking a few quick powernaps for himself. Nothing out of the ordinary – he's done that on ops before for his agents – but it had felt a lot bigger, felt like more these last few days. Natasha had looked at him with something almost like approval, and Clint had looked at him with something almost like... 

Phil clears his throat a second time, takes another long swig of coffee. 

He remembers leaving medical now. Remembers standing on his own two feet, shooting his cuffs... putting on a straight face, just like Clint had said. He remembers stopping in the hallway, speaking to him about... something, then climbing into a SHIELD SUV and... falling asleep, drifting off midsentence to drool against the window. 

Not a great first impression, but better that than neurological damage he supposes. 

Besides, if Clint trusts him enough to keep watch while he sleeps, Phil supposes it’s only fair that he knows Phil feels exactly the same way. 

“Natasha?” he asks, because as quiet as the Russian assassin had proved to be, he’s pretty sure it’s just him and Clint in the car. 

“She ducked off back to quarters,” Clint says, signaling a move into the fast lane, even though the darkened highway in front and behind is practically deserted. “You invited her to come back with us, but she said she’s not much of a Christmas person.” 

“Or a family person,” Phil adds, as Natasha’s face swims up from his subconscious. 

“Yeah, but she didn’t mean that part.” 

Phil smiles. 

He doesn’t think she meant it either. Not with the way she had quietly and calmly panicked on the flight to Greece, lecturing Phil in an angry tone about how his mother never should have opened the door for her and let her in, not with the way she had touched Clint’s hair and looked Phil himself over from head to toe when they’d all finally regrouped after the op. 

If any part of what she’d said was true, they’ve already begun to change it. 

Finishing off the last of his coffee, he accepts the bottle of water and packet of cheese crackers Clint hands him from the back seat with gratitude. He thinks he may be a bit dehydrated, and the cold refreshment chases away the last of the grogginess, the crackers warding off any upset a bellyful of coffee might cause. He can see Clint’s bow and both their duffel bags in the backseat, and knows now where they’re headed without having to ask. 

“Want me to drive for a while?” he asks. “We’re about halfway there.” 

“Nah, I’m good,” Clint declines, tapping his fingers on the lid of the travel mug sitting in his own cupholder. “I’m still pretty wired – I usually go to the range after an op, but I thought if we got on the road quick...” 

“It’s still early,” Phil says, eyeing the clock on the dash and a few of the reflective mile markers they’re passing. “We’ve got plenty of time.” 

“You... you don’t mind?” Clint asks, suddenly sounding terribly unsure, and Phil can’t help but reach out and take his hand, lift it and press it to his cheek. 

“No Clint,” he says softly, “I don’t mind my partner taking me home for Christmas.” 

Clint watches him as long as he can with big, liquid eyes, all hope and softness and joy, then smiles with excitement and poorly hidden relief. 

“Should be there in time for the kids to open presents,” he says, squeezing Phil’s hand before settling them on the console between the seats, fingers still tangled together. “And I got your mom and dad that great backgammon set.” 

“Tavli right?” Phil asks, still baffled as to where and how Clint had found the time to barter for the beautifully carved Grecian gaming board while they were in Athens. “They’ve love it Clint. And I’m sure everyone will appreciate the baklava. What were you planning to do with it if we hadn’t made it back in time?” 

“Um, eat it?” Clint replies, like Phil should have known he had every intention of consuming all ten pounds of the sticky, honey-and-pistachio soaked dessert on his own. “Between me and Nat, it’s not like it would go to waste.” 

“You would have shared,” Phil says quietly, because as little as he knows of Clint Barton, as new as they still are to each other, he’s sure of that. “You would have shared with Jasper and Maria and Mel, maybe Hunter and Bobbi.” 

“And you,” Clint says, turning to look at him with seriousness and affection. 

“I want to kiss you,” Phil says suddenly, surprised as much by the sudden, overwhelming sentiment as he is by the fact that he’s said it out loud. 

Clint’s face lights up and he grins, actually turns to pucker at him, but Phil snorts and pushes his face back toward the road. 

“Take me home,” he advises. “I’ll kiss you when you’re not exceeding the speed limit by fifteen miles an hour.” 

“Not exactly convincing me to slow down Boss,” Clint laughs as he hits the gas. “Can I put on the lights?” 

“Only if a patrol car picks us up,” Phil allows.

**AVAVA**

The rest of the drive in nice. Phil distracts him with a sort of informal after-action, going over all the bits of the mission that they’d liked or that had gone well. He gets a heated, dirty look for his trouble when he says that his favorite part was seeing Phil in a tac suit being a badass, but things go quiet and sweet when he admits quietly how much it had meant to him that Phil had allowed him to pick his own perch, to use his bow and to make suggestions. 

Phil frowns a bit, apologizes for Clint’s previous missions leaders and writes himself a reminder to speak to Fury in his phone, but then they’re back to talking again and it’s light and laughing as the sun starts to come up and turn the sky pink. 

Phil proposes some ‘team bonding’ exercises to make Natasha more comfortable and Clint’s heart practically melts in his chest. Dinner after an op will be a standing requirement, even if that just means a power bar on the jet back or ice chips in medical like it had this time, and they make plans to see a baseball game come spring. Clint suggests a trip to the ballet might be something Nat would like, even if she wouldn’t admit it, and Phil’s face lights up as he jumps online and orders tickets right then and there. 

A few hours later Clint’s turning up the driveway toward the sprawling log-cabin and pulling back into the same spot they’d parked the last time, the SUV they’d abandoned in favor of Natasha’s ride conspicuously absent. Clint doesn’t mind - just means he and Phil won’t have to split up for the drive back to New York – but he still sits there a minute after he’s shut the engine off. 

Phil raises his eyebrows, looks at him softly and questioningly, but Clint just smiles back. 

He’s not nervous, not like last time anyway, and there’s so much relief in knowing that he’s about to walk back in there and do this over, do it right that it’s almost painful. 

He’s about to walk in there as Phil’s partner for real, not for pretend or undercover or for any reason other than that he really, really likes the man next to him. 

“I really, really like you,” he hears himself murmur, and it should be dumb but Phil gets the happiest look on his face that maybe it’s not. Cupping Clint’s cheek in his hand, he leans forward and presses a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. 

“I really, really like you-like you,” he murmurs back, and Clint huffs a laugh. 

“Like me-like me, huh?” he asks, pressing his forehead to Phil’s and closing his eyes, just... basking in the moment. “Does that mean I get to get to second base?” 

Phil barks a laugh and pulls back, unclips his belt and climbs out, letting in a blast of cold air. 

“Not at my mother’s,” he replies as Clint jumps out too, both of them leaning into the back seat to grab their bags and the gifts Clint had brought back from Greece. “Maybe when we get home.” 

“Can I take you to dinner first?” 

Clint blinks, surprised at himself. 

He’s never been the wine-and-dine sort unless he’s... well unless he’s faking. When he was with Bobbi he’d gone all-out to help her make Lance jealous, but in his own relationships he’s usually kind of... lazy. With Phil though it’s just been so easy, so right that it hadn’t even felt weird to offer, hadn’t felt weird to want that. 

He _does_ want that. 

“I’d very much like to go to dinner with you Clint,” Phil says softly, smiling at him across the back seat, and then they both grin stupidly at each other for a minute before backing out of the car and closing the doors. 

“But, like a date right?” Clint clarifies, as they walk side-by-side up the drive to the front door, and Phil barks a laugh. 

“Yes Clint, like a date,” he says, grinning as he rings the doorbell. 

Clint thinks about kissing him right there, but suddenly the door’s being whipped open despite the early hour and Seth, Teddy, Tommy, and Lucky are all clamoring on the step, jumping and hollering and making all kinds of awesome, excited kid-noises and welcoming them back, and all he can do is stand there and watch his partner dole out hugs and Merry Christmases and pats on the head (for kids _and_ dog) with the happiest feeling in his chest that he’s felt in a long time. 

The next twenty minutes are a clutter of chaos – Ellie and Beth Coulson dragging them inside with hugs and cheek kisses and a hundred questions each, as Clint and Phil find themselves relieved of bags and boxes, gifts shepherded to the tree in the living room and baklava carried into the kitchen to be dished out alongside steaming cups of coffee, croissants and muffins and fresh fruit. Before he knows it, he’s been sat down on the couch curled close against Phil’s side, his arm wrapped around Clint’s shoulders, and he breathes a deep sigh as he lets the warm feeling of friends and family and safety and home sink beneath his skin. 

It’s too soon for it, but he knows himself and knows he’s already well on the way to falling hard. Sitting here in a warm, comfortable living room with the Christmas tree glittering bright in the corner, kids laughing and cheering and begging to start in on the gifts, people who somehow already care about him all around – well, it’s easy to just let himself enjoy it. He can worry about the rest later, can agonize over where he’s going to take a classy guy like Phil Coulson to dinner, let Natasha bully him into nice but not too-nice clothes, but for now, he’s going to enjoy what he’s got. 

They exchange gifts over the next hour or so, the kids digging in and ripping apart carefully wrapped gifts to get at the toys, candy, and clothes inside. Clint’s content to watch with the rest of the adults, so he’s surprised when Ellie Coulson hands him a knitted cap and scarf in shades of black and purple. They’re lined with fleece and super cozy, and he absolutely does not tear up over the fact that she’s spent the week between meeting him for the first time and now working hard to finish them by Christmas. 

He gives Robert the game board to unwrap, is pleased when they both adore the delicately carved board, but the way Phil’s mom marvels over the little glass ornament and the card he gives her means even more. She does tear up when she reads it, and Clint gets a wet kiss and a cuddle for his trouble, a feeling like a bonfire burning in his chest. Phil presses his face to Clint’s temple, rubs against him like a cat, and on his other side Beth ribs him mercilessly. It feels like family, and Clint can’t hate it at all. 

He helps clean up when presents are over, collecting ribbons and crumpled paper to be recycled. The rest of the day passes in low-key quiet as the kids play with their new toys, try out Seth’s video game and practice with Kate and America’s new makeup. Clint doles out a few tips about eyeliner, which earns him unimpressed looks from the twins but undying adoration from the two girls, and he’s happy to see Kyle and Robert Coulson both sitting down to learn the Tavli game while the women head to the kitchen to prep dinner. He and Phil are put to work peeling potatoes, and three hours later they all sit down to a heavily laden table to eat with Christmas carols playing quietly in the background. 

It’s nothing special. He marvels over that as they eat, and then after, when they all spend a quiet evening together listening to carols and talking, playing piano. It’s just family, spending time together doing the ordinary things that they all love. From the outside looking in, life as a superspy, a sort of underground superhero can look glamorous and exciting, but Clint can see the appeal in this sort of life too. Phil, well, Phil’s got it made, with the fast-paced, adrenaline-surging stuff he does at work and these quiet, caring family moments back at home, and he thinks maybe that’s why this, to him at least, is the most incredible week he’s ever had. 

They spend one more night at Phil’s family cabin. The next morning they get up, pack and have breakfast, and say heartfelt goodbyes at the door. Ellie, Beth, and Sarah load them down with leftovers and make them promise to call, Kyle tells them to be careful in that gruff way military men do when they know no promises can be made. They tumble out the door in a group – Aunt Jo, Nathan, and Drew all leaving as well and the kids heading out into the snow to play and wave goodbye, but it’s nearly twenty minutes before they actually start the car and pull out of the driveway. 

They're delayed when the twins’ stupid monster truck won’t start – it appears that half the engine’s gone missing from under the hood. 

Clint doesn’t know how Natasha managed it, but he probably owes her cheesecake. 

It’s harder than he expects to finally pull away. Without the rush of an emergent mission waiting for him, it’s not at all like the last time. Maybe that’s part of the reason Phil doesn’t visit very often, but Clint thinks it was totally worth it. Besides, it’s not like he’ll never be back here – there are new things to look forward to now, like dinner dates and Strike Team Delta. 

If the look on Phil’s face as he points them back toward HQ is any judge, he’s looking forward to those things too.


	12. Chapter 12

A week later Phil’s getting ready for his New Year’s Eve date with Clint when his sister Beth texts him a picture of a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs in a bedside drawer, where he’d apparently forgotten them. 

_Helping mom clean up and lock down till Memorial Day_ – she captions. _Just one question. Are these secret agent standard-issue?_


End file.
